


Vital Signs

by vforvillanelle



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: (and slaying), AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Eve is a softie, F/F, Fugitives, GIVE US VILLANEVE YOU COWARDS, I hope you all enjoy the twists and turns!, Kinky, Lovers on the Run, Season 2, Season 3, Villanelle is a softie, Villaneve is what Eve and Villanelle deserve, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT SEASON 2 FINALE, and those post Season 2 interviews were HORRENDOUS, at least until yotoob blesses us with another perfect Season 3 arc fic, big data is scary, globe trotting, it’s also what we deserve #so that’s what I’m gonna do…, kinky fuckery, make Orwell fiction again, otp: I think about it all the time, otp: I think about you all the time, otp: Sheppard's pie, otp: alaska and spaghetti, otp: this is what you wanted, otp: we are the same, otp: you're mine, tech companies rule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-03-26 16:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 131,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vforvillanelle/pseuds/vforvillanelle
Summary: After catastrophe strikes in Rome, Eve and Villanelle must fight for their lives. Hunted at every turn, they slowly unravel the blood-soaked threads woven by The Twelve. Their journey will take them around the world and force them to confront the chilling spectres that still haunt them.And as Eve and Villanelle venture ever deeper into the heart of The Twelve, they are faced with the true nature of their relationship and must choose which sacrifices they are willing to make in a world where trust is the scarcest virtue of all.





	1. Operation Silver Vanguard

_Here is my blessing and my curse:_  
_I touch you with the same hands_  
_with which I pray, the same hands_  
_with which I kill._  
_Tell me they feel_  
_the same clasped as they do_  
_bruised and bloody-knuckled._  
_Tell me I can trace the bow_  
_of your lips with my_  
_trigger finger._

**Nathaniel Orion G. K.**

* * *

 Aaron Peel observed Eve and Villanelle stroll along Rome’s cobblestoned streets as nonchalantly as if they were enjoying a holiday together.

He was ensconced in his breakfast room of ivory marble, dark wood, and caramel coloured leather. They were out in the open, exposed. Vulnerable.  _Weak._ He was able to coolly chew a thin slice of prosciutto and then pop an olive into his mouth. They had to contend with the bustle of tourists and the choking pollution of traffic.  He hunched over his tablet and caressed the screen to switch camera angles. They had no idea that he controlled every camera planted at the corner of an intersection or mounted high on the eaves of buildings or wired in each store, home security system, and digital device. They could not possibly comprehend how much he really  _saw_ and how it made everything so pathetically easy.

Carolyn and Konstantin flanked him at the table. They looked like stone sentinels, Aaron thought. Ever present, ever watchful. Unfortunately, these ones were not equally as silent.

“Is Raymond ready?” Carolyn asked.

Konstantin’s face darkened. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“The corner cafe at the end of this street,” Konstantin replied as he flicked his head toward Aaron’s tablet, “like we discussed.”

Carolyn took a sip from her crystal and gold rimmed glass. “Then Operation Mandalay is finished.”

“That’s it?” Konstantin chuckled. “Mission accomplished, just like that?”

Carolyn smiled thinly. “Momentarily.”

“The two of you will be silent now,” Aaron announced. He tapped in a few commands. He typed away the latest snippets of code he could gather from the program, then dug into various file folders and rearranged data. The latest footage of “Billie” pleased him immensely. He imagined, just for a moment, that she would resist quite nicely when he finally came to slide a knife into her heart. Until Carolyn’s terse voice ruined his daydream.

“Are you preparing Operation Silver Vanguard?”  
  
Aaron sighed. “That sounds as if it was chosen by a random internet name generator. Couldn’t you do any better?”

Carolyn yawned.

She let the silence linger as she plucked a few grapes and fixed Aaron with a very pointed stare. The glare from the tablet’s screen washed across Aaron’s glasses, giving the brief impression that there was nothing human behind them.

“Aaron, we appreciate the wealth of data that you possess. We’ve made use of it in the past, as I’m sure you can recall. But before you liquidate Pharaday by the end of this week, we need to have your program.”

“And if I don’t give it to you?”  
  
“I’m afraid I must insist that you do.”

“She’s right,” Konstantin offered between mouthfuls of warm bread dipped in honey.

“Or what? You’re going to kill me?” Aaron snorted. “You may understand what it does, but you don’t understand what it really is, what it  _means_. And you certainly don’t know how to use it.”

“Then please enlighten me.”

Aaron delicately stroked the corners of his tablet before answering, as if its clean, smooth surface could soothe him. “My company specializes in artificial intelligence. It is far more intelligent than any impulsive human being. It makes no mistakes. It has no regrets. It can find out anything about anyone, because I’ve made it so. AI is always writing itself. That is what you would be getting: a program that is always writing itself.”

“To what end?” Konstantin grumbled.

“You don’t need to know,” quipped Carolyn. “We have people who can handle that. Thank you, Aaron.” She extended her hand. “Give me your program. Now.”

“I don’t think I will.”

Konstantin’s glass clattered against his plate and he disguised his disbelieving laugh by coughing into his napkin.  
  
“You will. Or before your company liquidates, the world will learn the rather unpleasant truth of how you dispose of your palazzo’s guests.”

When Aaron’s mouth twitched open to reply, Carolyn cut him off. “You are not the only one who has access to data, Aaron. Data sharing is reciprocal.”

Very slowly, Aaron reached into the breast pocket of his shirt to produce a silver USB drive. An arrow, the symbol renowned among the ancient Greeks as a symbol of power bestowed by the goddess Artemis, was engraved onto it.

Aaron slipped the USB into the port on his tablet and began the transfer sequence. The screen flashed various times, hazing his glasses, refracting off the crystal, the polished silverware, Carolyn’s cold gaze. When the sequence was complete, Aaron proffered the USB to her.  

“This USB’s case is made of fine silver. The very best quality.”

“Marvelous.” Carolyn reached out.

“Wipe your filthy hands before you touch it.”

Carolyn yawned again. She complied then snatched the USB from Aaron. Konstantin rose from the table, but Carolyn motioned for him to sit again.  
  
“There’s no need to rush now, Konstantin. We have everything we need. I want to stay and watch the show.”

Aaron switched to camera view on his tablet. “They’re almost at the cafe.”  
  
“Very good.”  
  
“The program’s search function should be easy enough for you to use,” Aaron said dryly as moved to sit in another chair so that Carolyn and Konstantin could peer over his shoulder. “All you need is anyone’s name and you will know everything.”

“Ha!” Konstantin shook his head. “Not even your best technology knows what Villanelle can do.”

Aaron shrugged. “Irrelevant. She makes mistakes. My program does not.”

“Aren’t you worried about Eve, Carolyn?”  
  
“Oh, no! I’m perfectly alright. Your concern has been noted, Konstantin.

They watched as the camera zoomed in on Eve and Villanelle.

“And what if they just run from Raymond?” Or kill him?" Konstantin persisted. “You don’t know what tricks they have up their sleeve.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Aaron smiled. “There is nowhere on earth for them to hide.”

* * *

Mid-morning sunlight slanted across the colourful laundry strung out between the adjacent buildings. Peeling armchairs, gutted refrigerators, and soaked mattresses were pushed up against one side of the street. Along the opposite side, soiled (and possibly bloody) clothes, countless cigarette packs, empty wine and beer bottles, and littered food were spread around like some grotesque picnic. The stench was nearly overwhelming.

Eve hurried to catch up to Villanelle, who traipsed ahead wearing her most radiant smile. Eve knew that others saw Villanelle much the same way that many outsiders viewed Rome: an abnormal and damaged relic in a continent of modernizing cities. They couldn’t possibly conceive that Villanelle was passionate, dreamy, arrogant, clever, a touch spoiled (just a touch, mind you), raucous, irreverently romantic, and by turns entirely exasperating and enchanting. She was like a ruin that remained perfectly preserved thanks to benevolent, caring touches that alone eased the ravages of time.

Up ahead of them, people trickled out of a cafe. Somewhere between watching an elderly couple sharing spoonfuls of gelato and then having to evade a pack of roaming stray dogs that caused most of the people along the street to clear off, Eve decided that she needed the largest coffee in existence right about now.

“Hey, could we stop here for a minute?” she asked Villanelle. “I haven’t had my morning coffee yet.”

“Sure. You didn’t sleep well?”

“Not at all. And then this morning, you insisted that we discuss my plan about how  _not_ to kill Aaron before new buyers visit.”

“But you told me that you didn’t have a plan, Eve, because you trust me to handle him.”

“I still don’t have a plan. That’s what the coffee is for.”

Inside the cafe, Eve rummaged around her handbag. Her fingers brushed past her passport and “Billie’s” fake passport; past a small pack of tissues; past her lipstick; past numerous hair ties; past her planner and a tube of hand lotion; and finally past her iPhone until she found her leather wallet buried underneath it all.

She paid a lot for two  _tremendously_ small cappuccinos and they drank them sitting at one of the cute tables outside. The patio was mostly unoccupied, except for a short, brutish man with fading ginger hair who was studying the Monday morning newspaper.

“We should probably head back to Aaron’s palazzo,” Villanelle reminded Eve. “He’s expecting me to come by now.”

“So much for our plan.”

Villanelle grinned. “Forget the plan. You never answered my question from last night. Are you having fun in Rome?”

“Well,  _I’m_ not having fun in Rome.”

Eve and Villanelle stared at the ginger-haired main. He neatly folded his newspaper and simpered at them. “Want to know why?”

Villanelle smirked. “Oh Raymond, you are the worst.”

“Who is this?” Eve hissed.

“Don’t worry. Everything is under control.”

“Do you want to know instead why Rome is called the Eternal City?” drolled Raymond.

Villanelle sighed. “I don’t care.”

“Its citizens thought that no matter what happened to the world, no matter how many other empires might rise and fall, their precious Rome would go on forever. Bit stupid, really, if you ask me.”

“No one is asking you, Raymond.”

He stood up so suddenly that his chair fell over. “Your little Roman holiday is over.”

“Oh?” Villanelle squeezed Eve's shoulder. “That’s news to us.”

Raymond rolled up his sleeves. “Circumstances have changed.”

Eve frantically searched their surroundings for anything she could use as a weapon. She couldn't even throw any hot cappuccino in his face, damn it. As she backed away, Villanelle flung out one arm across Eve’s chest to shield her. And her other arm miraculously pulled out a pocket pistol from the back of her waistband.

Raymond froze.

A pounding gathered at the base of Eve’s skull as he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, followed by a hard knot forming in the pit of her stomach when Raymond began to back away, too. 

“That’s it Raymond,” Villanelle called out, “keep going.”  
  
“Will you just shoot him already?” Eve cried, a tremor of hysteria threading into her tone.

“He is important to The Twelve.” Villanelle’s grip on the pistol tightened. “Unless...would you like me to shoot him?”

Before Eve could answer, Raymond backed away until he’d disappeared into the cafe.

In the moment of confusion that followed, Eve thought that she would actually get to exhale a sigh of relief. The sound of broken glass was followed by Raymond storming back outside, hefting a fire axe.

“Do you want me to shoot him  _now,_ Eve? ”

“Do it!”

The shot cracked Eve’s ears. She flinched. Raymond was bleeding from his right shoulder. Another shot rang out. This one missed, as Raymond swung at Villanelle and caused her to stumble out of reach. He kept swinging, the axe singing and wailing through the air.

Eve was shaking. Sweaty and ragged and gasping, she lashed out with a kick. Her foot connected with Raymond’s knee cap. He went down to one knee, snarling.

“Raymond, are you going to propose to my Eve?” panted Villanelle.

He swung up at her, but from his position, the angle wasn’t right. Before the axe completed its upward arc, Eve seized its long handle. She towered over Raymond. He swore and thrashed. Eve kept bearing down on him, her fingers locked tight. She locked a feral growl behind her clenched teeth.

Raymond reversed from pushing to suddenly pulling. Eve pitched forward. The air in her lungs disappeared when Raymond’s fist connected with her stomach. He pulled her down to her knees now and they continued to wrestle with the axe handle until Eve felt, rather than heard, Villanelle come up from behind.

Her long shadow fell over Raymond. Eve envisioned Villanelle’s expression as she aimed down the pistol sights: clean, cool, motionless, intent.  _Inaccessible._

The bullet ripped through Raymond’s forehead. Eve felt the blood spray across her chin and trail along the left side of her face. Hot. Thin. Wet. The axe clattered to the ground the same moment Raymond’s body keeled over. Bits of brain were stuck in the fabric of Eve’s grey blazer, she realized faintly. Blood soaked the front of her turtleneck sweater; she used it’s collar to nudge off the spray on her face.

Villanelle slowly helped her stand. She brushed off Eve’s blazer and held her still for a moment.

“Eve?”

“Oh god. Oh  _god._ We are so fucked!”

“Eve-”

“I think I’m going to be sick!”  
  
“Swallow it. It’s not safe. Someone will come after him. We have to go!"

Eve grabbed her handbag. Villanelle grasped Eve’s hand. And they ran.

* * *

 When Carolyn stepped outside Aaron’s breakfast room to freshen up, Konstantin followed her.

“Why this intermission?”

“Why does Villanelle have a gun?”

“I gave it to her.”

“When was this?”

“She found me last night, on her walk around the palazzo. I was trying to park my car across the street at the hotel. She criticized me for double parking, Carolyn.”  
  
“So you gave her a gun, for old time’s sake?”

Konstantin shrugged.

“Giving her a gun won’t keep your family any safer, Konstantin.”

Konstantin’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That is your job.”

“Right now, my job is to make sure our assets are dealt with.”

Once they’d rejoined Aaron, Carolyn picked up the knife beside her breakfast plate. She slanted it this way and that, letting the sunlight spill over it almost contemplatively. “What are your plans for the rest of the week, Aaron?”  
  
“I’m visiting my sister in Greece tomorrow.”

“I see.” Carolyn put the knife back down. “Splendid! Of course, I’ve always loathed family get-togethers but if you two can get along, that’s really extraordinary.”  

“Where are they?” Konstantin asked.

“They’ve gone into some catacombs. But Eve brought her phone, the idiot. I’m tracking them. Barely. The signal’s faint.”

Carolyn sighed. “I guess we’ll have to bring in the Cleaners, then.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Aaron keyed in more commands. “Some UAVs should do the trick.”

“Excuse me, what are those?”

“Konstantin, they’re drones.”

“Why them?”

“Because machines do not feel.” Aaron said. “No messy ties. No second thoughts. No emotions. That is what makes them...perfect.”

* * *

 Villanelle twisted around and fired at the drone trailing them. The shot ricocheted off its pristine silver armor. No sparks. No dents. Just the sound booming throughout the stone catacombs.

Villanelle fired again, and again. The last shot missed, hurtling just over one of the drone’s propellers. It resembled a four legged spider, complete with a square, blazing red light at its center; this eye gave it an amusingly severe expression.   

“Where are we going?” Eve gasped.  
  
“I don’t know, I’m just following you!”  
  
They turned a corner. The drone started emitting some increasingly high pitched whirring sound. They ran faster. Villanelle fired more shots until the trigger clicked. She threw the empty pistol at the drone as hard as she could and grinned when it at least slightly wavered from its course.

“Look, light!” shouted Eve.

Some loose wooden planks and fallen rocks blocked their path. Eve rammed into the planks with her shoulder, screaming incoherently. Villanelle joined her. They threw themselves at the wood until it splintered, then they kicked it down. Eve grasped a plank, whirled around, and slammed it into the oncoming drone with all the grace of a seasoned batter.

The drone’s central light cracked. Flickered. Faded momentarily. The whirring stopped.  
  
“Wow.” Villanelle nudged it with her foot. “Do you think it’s dead?”  
  
“It was never alive to begin with.”  
  
“You know what I mean, Eve.”  
  
“Yes. Let’s get out of here before we find out if it's going to wake up or not.”

* * *

A few hours later, they were bustling through Ciampino airport.

They’d shed their old clothes in the washroom and replaced them with some outrageously overpriced, hideously styled offerings in one of the many airport stores. Eve wore an ill-fitting grey hoodie (which did not complement her handbag whatsoever) and black cargo pants, while Villanelle had opted for the most offensively stamped crop top she could find and a pair of artfully ripped skinny jeans.

“When this is over, we’re going back to Paris and buying everything in existence from Coco Chanel.”

“If we don’t die in the meantime.”

“You are  _such_ a drama queen.”

Eve dug through her handbag and brought up her phone as they approached a terminal. She flicked through various airlines and ticket offerings; her eyebrows shot up at some of the prices. “Any ideas where we should go now?”

Villanelle shook her head and pursed her lips apologetically. 

“Great. Thanks for the help.”

Eve scowled at her phone. The data had drained faster than usual and so had her battery, even though she’d charged it that same morning. She shoved the prickling concern aside. “Give me a minute and I’ll figure it out.”  
  
“You always do, Eve.”

Eve closed her eyes and sorted through her memories from the past few days. She arranged them like blossoming internet browser tabs, shifting and shuffling them around until they were lined up in some sort of logical order. Everything she’d researched about Aaron Peel surfaced, until her brain snagged on a little detail triggered by the crisp smell of popcorn.

She punched in several search terms, scrolled through various articles, used a translator, and managed to pick the right place.

“I’ve got it!”  
  
“Mm?”

"We’re going to Kymi, Greece.  It’s a small, coastal town.”

“Okay. Why?”

“When you had dinner with the Peels, Konstantin told me that they spoke an old version of Greek. Turns out it’s dialect is only spoken in Kymi.”

“You never cease to amaze me, Eve. But should we go after Peel first?”  
  
“It’s a good place to start.”

“I agree. Are you sure we can’t just go to the island of Lesbos for a few days?”  
  
Eve glared at her. “Our flight leaves in two hours.”

Eventually, they found the correct gate (of course it was the one farthest from their terminal, of course it was). Eve slouched down in the lounge chair as far as her aching spine would allow and was just about to drift off when she felt Villanelle rest her head on her shoulder.

“You okay?” Villanelle murmured.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Promise?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You were pretty shaken up after I shot Raymond.”

“Yeah well, I’m just glad you saved me.”

“I want you to tell me how you’re thinking and feeling. Always. But especially about this, okay? Watching someone die is not easy.”

“I imagine the only thing worse would be to actually kill them.” Eve let her lips brush against the top of Villanelle’s head as she felt her shrug.

“I thought I’d be scared. I thought I’d be a mess. But I’m like you now,” Eve whispered, feeling the realization spread warmth throughout her chest. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

Villanelle nuzzled into Eve’s curls.

“I am so glad we don’t have to hide who we are from each other anymore.”

 

 


	2. Inheritance

Terracotta roofs rose above the heavy thickets of firs that blanketed the mountainside. Between herds of grazing goats, groves of olive trees, and clusters of cypresses, several pebbled routes guided past an old mill, a cistern, and a quaint church. All the buildings faced the Aegean sea, cupped by the forests which layered backwards in the form of a natural amphitheatre. The invigorating scent of the sea breezed against dangling power lines; swept over compact, colourful cars; wrapped around houses and shops; whistled swiftly down avenues flanked by hanging baskets of fragrant flowers; playfully nudged the sailboats at the port; and refreshed the sun kissed skin of all the people beneath the azure sky.

Amidst all these people, Eve and Villanelle moved like wraiths. When they flew in last night and attempted to book a room at the beach resort that was aptly named Kymi Palace, they promptly found out that Aaron already owned it all. The lobby was strongly scented with cedarwood, mimicking the smell of old, regal ships. Leather couches were propped against sandstone walls and arranged in inviting formations along the polished marble floor. A mural made of blue and white gemstones decorated the area behind the reception desk. Eve argued with the concierge for fifteen minutes in order to force him to accept a hefty cash-only payment for their stay, as well as to keep their check-in off the books entirely, for a considerable tip.

This morning dawned with a chord of anticipation. Eve noticed it nestling between her fingers; gathering in the back of her mind like storm clouds on the horizon; tasted it lingering on her tongue like electricity. Anticipation curdled with worry and anxiousness as she roused herself from sleep. She’d almost fallen off the bed when she saw Villanelle coming from the ensuite completely _naked_ with two sets of bikinis draped over her right arm.

“Good morning!”

“G-good morning.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, I-”

“Eve, you don’t have to keep your eyes closed.”

It was somehow worse to keep her eyes closed, Eve realized, because that seemed to intensify the images of Villanelle’s luscious lips, her smooth skin, the way her blonde hair tumbled down her long neck, and the seductive current of her voice. When Eve could finally open her eyes, Villanelle was smiling.

“Help me choose which bikini looks best, okay?”

“Okay.”

Underneath the covers, Eve clenched the bedsheets. Her eyes tracked Villanelle’s fingers as she slowly untangled the first bikini’s top. She laid it on the bed, very close to Eve’s feet. It was copper coloured and had triangle shaped cups, ones that could probably accentuate the ampleness of Villanelle’s breasts. Then she bent down, showing off the way her hair spilled across her back like rays of sunlight, and slowly eased the bikini bottom (what little of it there was) up her legs. It passed her toned thighs and finally, she dragged it to rest on her hips.

Eve could see the covers over her chest cresting and falling with each sharp intake of breath. She traced Villanelle’s body with her eyes. And suddenly found herself aching to trace it with her fingers, too. Villanelle was clearly lithe; her muscles radiated wiry, chaotic strength with each precise and fluid movement. Fuck, even the way she arched her back to adjust the bikini top enraptured Eve.

The distance between them left her bereft. It was cruel and unjust for the sunlight to get to caress the slant of Villanelles jaw; to rest at the soft hollow of her throat; to linger at the curve of her hips; to heat her lips with trembling passion. Eve’s burning hands relinquished the bedsheets in favour of resting against the tender skin of her inner thighs. In turn, Eve noticed that Villanelle’s inner thighs were already slightly coated with arousal, the dripping wetness lending a delightful sheen.

Eve imagined that Villanelle would invite her to lick the slickness there, allow her to taste the sharp, almost stinging, yet undeniably delicious flavour of Villanelle’s secretions; then grasp a fistful of Eve’s hair when she moistened her way between Villanelle’s legs, tugging with increasing force the more insistently that Eve lapped between Villanelle’s folds and flicked her tongue across Villanelle’s firm, swollen clit.

It wasn’t until Villanelle tried on the second bikini that Eve consciously focused on her scar.

A thin and pale line marred the area just above her left hip. The slightly raised skin contrasted with the soft flower print of the second bikini. It had a center back strap and the slim cut bottoms were designed with an ultra low rise at the front. Eve couldn’t tear her gaze away from the ripple of Villanelle’s scar as she twirled around and then rested one knee on the edge of the bed, leaning toward Eve.

“Do you want to touch it?” Villanelle asked softly.

Eve kept her eyes fixed on the scar. Underneath the covers, her fingers were ablaze. All it would take was one smooth motion for them to make contact with her dampened panties. It wouldn’t take much to drag her fingers along her dripping slit, in much the same motion as the slice of Villnalle’s scar.

How it had wept blood, that fine cut, that flesh-line separating right from wrong. Eve couldn’t forget how tissue and tendon had yielded to the pocket knife’s blade, searing and tearing as she penetrated Villanelle. And her _groan,_ the shift of her body as she rolled over in agony, taking Eve with her, the motion dizzying and intoxicating and potent.

Villanelle seemed to notice that Eve’s eyes had glazed over. Her voice carried traces of amusement and pride when she asked:

“Are you touching yourself?”

Eve hurled the covers off and leapt out of bed. “We should be looking for Aaron.”

“Relax. We’ll find him one way or another.”

The first bikini was neatly folded on the end of Eve’s bed when she came back out of the (very cold) shower. Apparently, Villanelle’s entire plan regarding Aaron was to spend the day at the Palace’s rooftop terrace. It had a wooden balcony and overlooked the entire beach. The white sand served as a canvas to contrast all the people that strolled barefoot along the shoreline. There was an ethereal haze where the horizon met the sea, a great distance held in the cusp of Kymi’s inviting grip.   

The slopes of mountains on either side dipped into the water which shivered between shades of cerulean and deep lapis. Its heady scent washed Eve as she begrudgingly reclined on one of the white wicker sunbathing chairs. Beside Villanelle was a table complemented by a plate of fried sardines glazed with lemon juice and a vase of striking yellow narcissi.  

Eve closed her eyes and was immediately captivated by the scents that enraptured her: the mineral zing of the saltwater, a sloppy dash of sunscreen, the ambertoned glug of tanning oil, the citrus from a passing margarita and of course, something so uniquely _Villanelle._

She smelled ancient, musty, wild. Taking her in was like being inside a secret underwater cavern, where drowning was not the gateway to death but rather the entrance to paradise.

Eve wished that she at least had her iPhone to fidget with. She’d left it in their suite, powered down to charge after yet another battery drain had surged it late last night. Something to look into, Eve noted, as she tilted her head back. The view before her was indeed astounding, but an onslaught of worries raced through her jet-lagged mind and flickered behind her tightly closed eyes. What if they somehow missed Aaron? What if he already knew they were coming? What if The Twelve knew where they were _right now_ and had already sent someone to _murder them_ in a _few moments_?

What if she wasn’t good enough? What if Villanelle got bored of her? What if they both _died_ before getting what they wanted?

“I think there’s something wrong with my phone,” Eve blurted.

“Okay. Do you want me to buy you a new one?”

“No! Of course not, I just-”

“You worry too much, Eve.”

Villanelle lifted a hand to shade her gaze from the sunlight. Her radiant eyes retreated behind a fearsome squint, her lips were hidden by a frown.

“Do you see her?” She pointed to a woman that was wearing a black one-piece swimsuit and leaning against the railing. She had curly dark hair. “She’s perfect!”

The sharp twist of jealously derailed Eve’s anxious train of thought. It rose through her rib cage, charred her heart, smoked it’s way up her lungs and made her eyes sting. She grabbed the bottle of sunscreen protruding from underneath Villanelle’s wicker chair and stood over her.

“I think you need more sunscreen.”

“Huh? No?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Oh…”

“Get up.”

Villanelle languidly rose to her feet. She faced Eve with one eyebrow arched.

“Turn around.”

Eve tried to keep her hands steady as she placed them on Villanelle’s shoulders. She slathered sunscreen along the sides of Villanelle’s neck, pressed it into the tautness of her back, dragged it all the way down to the bikini bottoms and let her hands linger on Villanelle’s hips.

A heartbeat passed between Eve and Villanelle.

Then Eve snaked an arm around until her palm smoothly went over Villanelle’s scar. She pressed down. Villanelle’s exhalation contained the ghost note of a moan. She let Eve bear the weight of her as she leaned backwards, pointedly flush against the throbbing between Eve’s thighs. It was building into an insistent ache, demanding immediate release. Eve wanted to growl into Villanelle’s hair, wanted to mark the sensitive skin of her neck, craved to smear kisses just underneath her ear and all along her throat, longing to feel the leap of her pulse against hungry, wind chaffed lips.

Instead, Eve slowly dragged a finger along Villanelle’s scar. Up and down, up and down. Her touch was light yet suggestive, matching the rhythm of Villanelle’s breathing.

“What do we do now?” murmured Eve.

“Watch and wait,” Villanelle rasped.

The woman at the railing was still leaning over it. She was waving at someone on the beach. Her curly dark hair flowed in the wind. She extended her body even farther, the black swimsuit straining against her tanned back.

As Eve’s hands roved all over Villanelle’s back, Eve couldn’t help but note that one quick shove would send the woman tumbling down to a very messy death. Her neck would probably crack, leaving her features in a state of permanent, lopsided shock. Her brain wouldn’t even have time to process the snapping of bone, the shattering of her jaw, the bodily fluids leaking onto the concrete as people screamed and gathered around her in horror.

Eve smiled into the nape of Villanelle’s neck.

* * *

Kenny’s laptop screen was awash with lines of code, fractures of different windows flipping between each other, colouring the room with shades of cool blue and pale white. Kenny eyed the silver USB cheekily poking from the side of his laptop; it made the machine whir intermittently and Kenny strongly contemplated hurling everything against the adjacent wall.

The front door slammed. Kenny ignored the dread pooling in his gut as he heard Carolyn trudging up the stairs. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his khakis and willed the sequence to write itself faster.

“Any progress?”

“No. It just keeps looping.”

“Pity.”

“How was Rome?”

“Eve is fine, Kenny.”

“Right. Great.”

Kenny remained focused on the screen even when he felt Carolyn looming over him. The same few lines of code kept reappearing, then repeating digits that obviously had some significance. But just as soon as Kenny’s fingers brushed over the keys, or hovered over the trackpad, the sequence would restart as if it sensed his intentions and was determined to mock him.

Carolyn squinted at the sheet of paper that I Kenny had scrawled on with a drying pen.

“What did you see?”

“I know there’s got to be a pattern. At first I noticed the repetition scattered throughout the middle of the sequence. When it gets to the end, it just...starts up again.”

“Did you try anything differently?”

“Mum, it’s messy. Really, really messy.” Kenny pointed to his scribbled notes. “I can see the pattern. But I don’t know what it means, where it fits, or why it loops.”

“Why do you think it loops?”

“So I can find the rest of it. Back to the beginning, until I can put all the pieces together.”

Carolyn observed the flashing screen. The sterile yet chaotic information didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest; she reached into the pocket of her blazer and donned her glasses. Then she crossed her arms. Challenged the screen to a staring contest. And over the next few moments she proceeded to win, Kenny thought, because she stifled no less than two yawns and fought back against the natural inclination of her eyebrows to shoot up in confusion when the sequence restarted.

“Yes, I see what you mean now, Kenny. It’s quite rude.”

“I’ve been at this since you first got back. It’s taking forever. I keep missing the point.”

“You were never cut out for the Cleanup operation.”

Kenny lowered his eyes. He stared at the hardwood floor, his vision slowly but surely going in and out of focus. A chasm yawned inside him suddenly, threatening the sourness of failure and disappointment. When he looked up again, Carolyn was smiling.

“That’s why you’re very good at this instead. And you’re getting better every day.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Breathe. Stop and think for a moment.”

Kenny tapped his finger on the edge of his desk.

“Maybe...I’m not finding anything else in the sequence because I’ve already found everything?”

“Perhaps. Or the sequence itself is incomplete.”

“Oh my god!”

“Aaron doesn’t strike me as a man who would simply hand over all his secrets.” Carolyn placed a finger against the side of her nose.

“Bastard...of course.” Kenny rubbed his temples and exhaled slowly. “This USB must be the first one. It prompts the sequence, but it only truly starts with the next USB...and continues with the next...and then the next.”

Kenny glared at his screen. He caught the remaining digits again, furiously noted them one more time for good measure, and then slammed the pen down.

“Do you know where the rest of these USBs are?”

“I’m afraid not.” Carolyn’s lips twitched with something like amusement. “It would be useful if we had a team to hunt them down.”

“Jess? And Hugo?”

“And you, if you agree to be our codebreaker.”

“It’s not like I have a choice, do I?”

“Kenny, you always have a choice.”  
  
“Fine. I may as well stick with this then.”  
  
“Good.” Carolyn let her shoulders slump a bit. She nodded at Kenny’s notes. “I’ll let you explore the idea that those repeated digits are geo-location coordinates while I go have a nice chat with Jess.”  
  
Caroyln was halfway down the stairs when she stomped back up and peered at Kenny.

“Tea?”

“Thanks, mum.”

* * *

Eve scrolled through her contacts, relieved that her phone was finally fully charged, when her thumb came to rest on the name Hugo. She stared at the screen as if it could offer any indication of what she should do next. Unbidden, fondness and terror clashed together in her chest with all the viciousness of two gladiators fighting in Rome’s Colosseum. The strains of her emotions felt like striking blades, brutal punches, and swift kicks to the head. The unrelenting grapple between the two opposing forces threatened to break the amor Eve had meticulously encased her heart in; thinking of Hugo really meant thinking of Villanelle, and remembering his body shuddering beneath hers only caused her to want, and want, and want Villanelle more.

The woman herself amplified this effect considerably whenever she entered Eve’s orbit. Not that she’d actually left at all from the moment she had arrived, Eve admitted solemnly as she watched Villanelle sharpen a fisherman’s knife. It had a wooden handle that looked like it was hacked from the body of a boat. The blade was thin, slightly curved, and somewhere between too short and too long in length. Villanelle dragged the sharpening stone along its edge smoothly and quickly, occasionally wetting it with faintly scented oil from the small bottle resting beside her. Eve followed the practiced motions of her hands, the confident press of her long fingers as they prepared the knife, and wondered how it was possible that Villanelle made even this unimpressive tool radiate with such an opulent aura.

When Villanelle was finished, she tucked the knife away in the front pocket of her overalls. The grey t-shirt she wore underneath appropriately reeked of fish, and she’d even managed to put on the ghastly black rubber boots that rounded out her disguise. Her hair was tied into a tight ponytail. She flicked her head with an air of finality and put her hands on her hips when she caught Eve’s gaze.

“Are you ready?”

“I don’t know.”

“But all the fishermen are bringing their boats back at dusk. We have to pay Aaron a visit and bring him our latest catch.”

“I’m sure Aaron won’t like the idea of his dinner being caught by a woman.”

“Do you like your fish filleted and grilled, or raw like sashimi?”

“I don’t really like fish.”

“Let’s hope Aaron does.”

Eve looked at her phone again. “Maybe I should call Hugo before we go.”

“Why?”

“It would make me feel safer. We’re walking into Aaron’s grasp without a plan.”

“I am confused as to why there always has to be a plan and an end result. To think of someone for just a purpose is to dehumanize them.”

“I guess it’s because people usually like to have plans and goals. Something to strive for.”

“Making it up as I go along is just what I do.”

Eve sighed. “I don’t want to be on the run from The Twelve for the rest of my life. You probably think that’s boring.”

“I am never bored with you, Eve. But...will going after The Twelve make you feel safer?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Fine. Then we’ll take care of them.”

A shaky laugh escaped Eve. “What do you think is happening here? You think we can just go on a killing spree and take out The Twelve? We don’t even know who they are!”

Villanelle shrugged. “How hard can it be? We can start by finding a Keeper.”

“And do we know who any of them might be?”

“Ah...no.”  
  
“Can’t you ask Konstantin or something?”  
  
“He wouldn’t know either. He was just my Handler.” She paused. “But Raymond kept saying he was more important than a Handler.”

“So he was a Keeper?”

“I think so.”

“Great. He’s dead.”

“But Aaron isn’t. The sooner we find him, the sooner we’ll know more.”

As they stepped out and twilight in Kymi was accompanied by several resonant tolls of the church bell, Eve felt her spine tingling with foreboding. She wanted to tip the wooden fisherman’s skiff over when Villanelle gestured her into it, just to spare them from whatever horrible fate Aaron would inflict upon them. What if he already knew they were coming? What if he just instantly recognized them as soon as they set foot in his rustic admiral’s abode? What if he had some security system with invisible lasers that would just disintegrate them on the spot? Drowning definitely seemed like the more compassionate option, even if the shock of the water would be freezing enough to stop her heart in its tracks anyway.

Villanelle silently rowed them along. She had the air of someone who had done this ever since they were a child; perhaps her mother had also fished along those same shores, as had her mother before her, and back and back the bloodline went, these fishing women that were adept at traversing tumultuous waters and wielding knives that sliced through scales and rope alike. In a few moments, it seemed that Villanelle was skilled enough to cast out a net and capture every fish teeming beneath the surface.

The water was as smooth as glass and reflected the subdued hues of purple and orange as the sun sank down. Eve caught her rippling reflection and watched it refract as Villanelle dipped the oars.

“This is romantic, don’t you think?” asked Villanelle.

“No. You stink of fish.”

“You’re ruining the moment.” Villanelle heaved the oars back with renewed fervor. “I like the way the sunset moves through your curls.”

“Thanks.”

They looked at each other without speaking. The quiet that unspooled between them was one of understanding and brought with it a sense of ease. Listening to the splashing of the oars soothed Eve. And knowing that Villanelle was bringing them to at least a certain destination managed to calm Eve as well. So much so that when Villanelle got out of the skiff and proffered her hand to steady Eve, she grasped it without hesitation.

“Should we just knock on the front door?” wondered Eve.

Villanelle shook her head. ”There’s a better way.”

The Peel residence was the largest building along this shore. It had two stories, with a balcony wrapping around the front of the house, parallel rows of cypresses leading to the thick wooden front door, and a gravel path drizzling over to the back where Eve could hear a fountain playing. Villanelle crept along, swiftly passing the largest window on the east side, and waved Eve over to crouch beside her near a neatly trimmed hedge. Voices carried to them, wafting from the living room and through the French doors that were left ajar.

“How was the tech conference in Rome?”

The first, soft voice was Amber’s. It tickled Eve’s memory of eavesdropping on their dinner only a few days ago. 

“Boring.”

The second, austere voice belonged to Aaron. Eve already pictured his smug face, the calculating lilt of his tone, his bespectacled eyes devoid of any passionate spark.

Eve could hear the floorboards creak as Amber and Aaron walked around. This was followed by the poof! of air rushing out of leather as they both sat down, presumably on the sofa. Eve was about to peer around the bush when Villanelle anticipated the very same impulse and carefully pried the French doors open wider. Eve joined her, and they promptly huddled behind a wall extending off the kitchen hallway that allowed them to survey the living room. It smelled of charred driftwood. Tones of cream and dark brown pervaded the pallette, while the only bursts of colour were contained in the blue curtains and the rug thrown before the stone fireplace.

Amber and Aaron continued their conversation in the old Greek dialect. It was pleasant to listen to, Eve noted distantly, but she clutched the edge of the wall so hard her knuckles turned white. The longer they spoke without her being able to understand a word, the more her chest felt like it was caving in. A physical pain settled into the core of her lungs, which seemed to drip open a pit in her stomach that induced nausea and constricted her throat.

Villanelle’s touch on Eve’s forearm elevated her to a different plain of mind. Villanelle exuded an unnerving aura of calm that radiated from her fingers and seeped into Eve’s bloodstream. Although Villanelle’s expression was soft, the  stubborn set of her jaw was the only thing that betrayed that her mind was anything but serene. Yet Eve felt sedated, her sickness tranquilized for as long as Villanelle anchored her with physical contact. Eve focused on how _good_ it felt to touch Villanelle that morning, and the sunlight of those thoughts broke through the clouds of uncertainty.

They would watch and wait, Eve decided. Just as they had done today, until Villanelle noticed Aaron berating a vendor in the fish market and then stalked him here to this place. All they needed was an opening, a lull in the conversation, to invite them to slip in as surely as a knife sliding between the ribs.

“What would father say about you selling the company?” Amber’s harsh switch back to English punctured the flow of the preceding sentence. Aaron insisted on replying in old Greek, but she shouted him down.

“No, you can’t just do what you want because he was murdered!”

“Be silent. You don’t know anything.”

“I know you’re denying me what’s mine!”

Aaron’s laugh was quick and sharp, like a needle stuck under the skin. “And what do you think is yours?”

“I have just as much of a right to father’s company as you do. I don’t want you selling it.”

“Sentiment doesn’t suit you. We’re better selling off the bloated beast he created instead of letting it bleed us dry.”

“I won’t let you do it!”

“I am the man in this household! It is already done. There’s nothing you can do.”

“No!” Amber propelled herself away from the sofa and put it between her and Aaron. “You’re not going to control me anymore. I have a say in my own inheritance!”

Villanelle pulled out the fisherman’s knife, stepped into this gaping wound of the conversation, and pulled Eve in with her.

“If you want your inheritance,” Villanelle called out in “Billie’s” voice, “you should claim it.”

Eve stood to one side of Amber, while Villanelle framed her on the other, and they all regarded Aaron. In the dim light, his stern features almost looked effeminate.

“You’re all ridiculous. Nothing you do matters.”

“You can’t control your way out of this,” Amber snarled. “We can make our own choices.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Aaron, you don’t seem surprised to see us.” Eve kept her tone flat and aimed for something close to casual.

“I’m not. You were a nuisance from the moment I met you.”

“Rude,” muttered Villanelle.

“Not nearly as rude as breaking your dinner host’s nose with a book because you’re an immature, spoiled brat with a penchant for violence.”

“Don’t even think about it Villanelle!” Eve snapped as Villanelle’s fingers twitched on the knife’s handle. “We still need answers.”

“What do you want to know?” Amber asked. “Maybe I can help.”

“In Rome, Aaron had a meeting with some Russian buyers,” offered Villanelle. “Do you know of any others lately?”

“There were some people visiting last week and the week before, yeah.” Amber twined her hair around her fingers while she thought. “I can remember some from Germany. Spain. Um...Japan.”  
  
“The UK?” Eve asked tersely.  
  
“I think so. France, too. And Australia, probably. It didn’t sound like British English anyway.”  
  
A pounding gathered in Eve’s head. She _knew,_ with a warm sense of weight that settled into her very bones, that these countries weren’t random; that Aaron was calculating and goal oriented; that the buyers were handpicked; that they approached him with a singular agenda; that Aaron was slowly inching closer Amber; that the tech conference in Rome was a front for a gathering of international buyers; that the buyers had a source which directed them; that Villanelle had moved to stand at Amber’s shoulder; that Amber was clutching the edge of the sofa; that Eve was standing still, so still, while thought after thought stacked itself in her mind like a long row of glittering, ruby-coloured dominos; until the final domino completed the arc of Eve’s thoughts by suggesting that all Amber needed was a push in the right direction and everything would come into sharper focus.

So Eve pushed: she eagerly flicked that domino with an air of curiosity and watched the rest fall, cascading into a sequence that laid bare all of Eve’s thoughts against the backdrop of the Peels’ living room. Eve met Villanelle’s eyes. They were clear. Steady. Utterly honest. Not a hint of disapproval clouded them.

Easily, almost effortlessly, Eve turned Amber’s fear into a weapon:

“Aaron ordered the hit on your father.”

In the time it took for Amber to gasp and Aaron to shout a curse that would have made even the most hardened fisherman blush, Villanelle pressed the knife into Amber’s hand. Then Villanelle gently squeezed her shoulder, stepped away from her side to rejoin Eve, and looked on as  Amber faced an exceedingly pale Aaron.

“Father already gave you the company but you killed him anyway.” Amber said numbly.

“I can explain-”

“Don’t.” Amber skirted around the sofa. She advanced on Aaron, gripping the knife with such force that Eve could hear her knuckles crack from across the room.

Aaron scrambled around the sofa, stuttering and trying to lead Amber on in circles. Her pace was relentless. They circled each other like wolves prowling the fringes of firelight. Amber kept saying _you can’t control me_ like a chant or an invocation. Her voice cracked a few times and wavered with the threat of tears, but still, she trailed Aaron.

As she completed her latest pass, Amber directed a question at Eve. “How do I make the right choice?”

Eve looked Amber dead in the eye. “Don’t make a choice you aren’t prepared to live with.”

The last of the sunset haloed Aaron’s silhouette and threw his face into shadow. How he responded to Amber driving the knife into his throat was not up to him, it was up to his body; and though he believed earlier that he could control his body, he could not.

Air whistled past his slackened lips. Blood poured from the wound in his throat. Crimson lines streaked down the front of his shirt and raced down his left forearm. His expression twitched between shocked and petrified. Wet skin and tissue pulsed. The wound gaped.

Then the knife sliced across the rest of Aaron’s throat. In its wake was a shaky diagonal line that slopped more blood, freeing it to gush down like a waterfall. Aaron slumped against the back of the sofa and gradually slid down it until his head lolled sharply to the side. The blood from his throat was slowly reduced to a fine trickle.

His glasses slid uncontrollably down his nose and the lenses cracked when they smacked onto the floor.  


	3. Fracture Points

Carolyn walked into the MI6 offices holding the latest edition of the Financial Courier in her iron grip. She tossed it on Hugo’s desk. He looked up sardonically.

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” His eyes widened as he read the headline. “Oh shit.”

“What’s going on?” Jess joined them with a cup of tea. She leaned against the side of Hugo’s desk to support herself and her pregnant belly.

“Read it,” Carolyn commanded.

Hugo cleared his throat, then smirked. “‘Sale of tech company Pharaday UK put on indefinite hold as Amber Peel mourns death of brother.’”

He skimmed the rest of the story and gleefully extracted quotes. “‘He died of fish poisoning,” stated Amber. She further noted that she would honour tradition by burying her brother in Kymi, Greece, where the Peel family has roots…’ Wow.”

“What’ll she do with Pharaday now that she’s not selling it?” asked Jess in between loud slurps of tea.

“Apparently she wants time to mourn Aaron,” Hugo grunted. “‘When asked about next steps, the young heiress to Peel’s tech empire and his considerable wealth declined to comment. ‘This is an extremely difficult time. I’m asking for privacy and time to properly grieve.’”

“Oh what a load of bullshit…we all know what’s really going on.” Jess appealed to Carolyn. “It was Eve and Villanelle, right? _Please_ tell me that you told them to assassinate Aaron.”

“They did MI6 a favour, really.” Carolyn sighed. “However, for the record, I didn’t order this. It seems they took some initiative. But we can’t just have two rogue agents killing people on the run. It’s too...destabilizing.”

“We can’t officially apprehend them either,” Jess pointed out. “No red tape means they don’t even exist.”

“Correct. This is a bit of a pickle, really.”

“So they’re just on vacation, killing people now. Brilliant.” Hugo swiveled in his chair and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his face-splitting grin.

“What else do you think they’d be doing?"

Hugo’s fingers formed a V shape and he flicked his tongue vigorously between them. Jess rolled her eyes.

“Ah Kenny, right on time.” Carolyn waved him over to his desk. They all crowded around him as he gingerly set his satchel down and eyed his computer screen warily.

Carolyn put her hands on his shoulders. “Please find Eve and Villanelle for me.”

“No problem,” Kenny said sarcastically, “I’ll just track them through some fiber optic cables.”

The sound of his furious typing filled the office. It took him a bit to locate Eve’s phone. It took him a bit longer to process the coordinates etched on his screen, because actually, if he was really as good as his mum thought he was, and if he really was getting better the more he practiced this sort of mildly creepy thing, then Eve’s phone was currently drowning right in the middle of the Aegean Sea.

“Okay so, looks like Eve had the good sense to ditch her phone.”

Kenny switched to scouring CCTV footage. Europe looked decidedly less charming when viewed through the various camera feeds scattered throughout London, and the rest of England, and Scotland, and Germany, and Hungary, and Greece, and every other country both belonging and not belonging to the EU. Kenny silently cursed Aaron for being so monstrously creepy and supporting his creepiness with a nightmare search engine and piles of money, but Kenny also fervently thanked Aaron for posthumously making his job easier with nearly unlimited surveillance access.

By the time Jess had gone through two more mugs of tea, Kenny found Eve and Villanelle. He glowed at Carolyn’s smirk of approval, the knowing twinkle in her eyes. Even Hugo seemed impressed.  

He nodded at Kenny’s screen. “Does anyone fancy chocolate or cheese?”

* * *

Villanelle visited Zürich only once, with Konstantin. When she was sixteen and he had chosen _her_ (not Nadia, because of course she was better at everything than Nadia) from the shitthole Russian prison. The very next day, he’d taken her to Credit Suisse in order to open a bank account. Pride was a good feeling, Villanelle remembered, because it made her feel powerful. Feeling powerful was _good,_ and she was probably the only teenage girl in the world to have her very own Swiss bank account.

The pride remained with her even now, Villanelle noted, although it was strange because she could not tell if it was here because she still had her account or because Eve was here with her, and now she had someone else to impress besides Konstantin. Not that he ever acted terribly impressed with her, but Eve...fuck. With her, it was different. All of it. Especially the feelings, one of which was pride, along with all the power it carried. Yes, Eve made her feel _powerful_ , and that was good.

Eve made her feel _good_ , and that was all that mattered.

Villanelle glanced behind her with a toss of her hair. Eve was seated on one of the cushioned wooden chairs in the waiting area, hunched over a notepad. Villanelle was attempting to actually access her bank account, only to have her efforts frustrated by the stupid, stupid banker with his weasel-like eyes and annoying voice.

“You did not have to come all this way to Switzerland in person,” he said. “We also offer online banking services.”

“I do not trust online banking.”

“We pride ourselves on privacy and security. It is very safe, I assure you.”

He spun her some narrative about the rise of identity theft, spewed some statistics, and used a lot of pointlessly complicated language to explain how Credit Suisse countered this threat, all the time speaking in a professional sounding voice. But he leered at Villanelle, swept his eyes up and down her body, practically salivating at the rise and fall of her chest and the way her hips tilted to one side as she leaned against the counter. He was already irritating, and the more he spoke, the more that Villanelle really wanted to carve his eyes out with one of the golden fountain pens just within her reach.

But Eve would not like that (yet). And his screams would distract Eve from her notepad, after all. So Villanelle tried to be tactful and to be polite, as well as nice and normal and decent. For Eve. 

“I don’t need your assurance. I need my bank account. Hurry up. Please,” she added quickly, thinking that Eve would approve. Then she scowled, because when had she started thinking about Eve’s wants and needs and feelings before her own?

Villanelle suddenly missed being sixteen again. Before Eve.

“Just give me a few moments, miss.”

Villanelle sighed. She paced over to Eve and sank down on the chair beside her. Slouched. Placed her hands over her chest. Tugged at a loose string on her jeans, ripped it off. Used it to floss her teeth. Wrapped the string around her finger so hard it cut into her skin and made the blood flush to the surface. Let the string float away, then sighed again. Loudly.

“What?” Eve asked distantly.

“I am wondering why the banker is being rude at me, and I was only being polite.”

“What did he do?”

“He was checking me out.”

“I’m sure you’re just crushed by that,” said Eve, idly underlining some words on the notepad.

“And he is making me wait.”

“Devastating.” Eve ran her hands through her unruly hair. This seemed to brighten Villanelle’s mood. “Look,” Eve showed Villanelle the notepad. “I’ve listed some countries that should pique your interest. We’re already in Switzerland, which is one of them.”

Villanelle went through the list. She recognized the half-dozen countries that Amber had already mentioned. The rest hastily careened into each other in Eve’s slightly chaotic handwriting: Belgium. Canada, Netherlands. Sweden, United States, Italy.  

“Why are these countries special?”

“Villanelle, there are twelve counries. Y’know, _twelve._ ”

“I can count, Eve. So?”

“These are all the G12 countries,” explained Eve slowly, “the ones with significant economic and political influence.”

“And you think the Keepers will be there?”

“Probably. I mean, Frank said that The Twelve always ordered hits in some sort of sequence. Is that true?”

“I don’t know, I never really paid attention.” Villanelle tilted her head thoughtfully. “But that would make sense. The people I killed had significant influence, as you say.”

Eve chewed thoughtfully on the end of her pen. “Do you know what Keepers actually do?"

“Konstantin told me that they keep the names of The Twelve. But...I don’t think he really knows what they keep. He just got postcards from them and handled me.”

“Besides, it wouldn’t make sense for Keepers to have the real names of The Twelve-"

“That’s just bad organization.”

“Exactly. The Keepers might crack if they’re captured or tortured.”

“There’s a thought!”

Eve shifted in her chair. “But they’re obviously keeping _something._ And if we find them, we’ll be in a better position to stay alive.”

“You know we can’t have them coming after us.” Villanelle said steadily. She trusted that Eve would feel the heavy implications of this declaration, even if she didn’t currently feel its underlying electric thrill.

“I know.”

Villanelle had still hoped to hear more than weary resignation in her voice at the thought of murder. But okay, they could work up to it. Villanelle would nudge and prod and ease Eve into it as easily as she slipped in between her heart beats.

“I am glad we have a list now. But us going to The Twelve stays difficult.”

“I don’t know what else to do.”  
  
“Well, they must know about Aaron by now. I am sure they are already looking for us and this will only make them look harder. That is why we should let them come to us, Eve.”

“Right. That’s...a good idea, actually.” Eve scratched the back of her head. “Maybe MI6 is looking for us too?”

“Why, so you can go back to your old life?”

A short, mirthless laugh escaped Eve. “I don’t think that’s possible. Even if I wanted it to be.”

Villanelle carefully looked at the scuff marks on her shoes in order to hide the sparks flaring in her eyes. “Okay. If MI6 is also looking for us, then that’s good.”

“How? I don't want to just sit around and wait to be found.”

“Neither do I. That is why every time we...escalate…we will be doing nice, productive things and they will all come to us faster.”  
  
_They will die faster, too._

“Escalate?” Eve tested the word in her mouth. Its taste was clearly not something that she enjoyed. And yet, it was also not a taste she wanted to altogether spit out. It was an...acquired taste.

Villanelle saw Eve’s left leg jitter up and down. The indecisive tapping of her fingers on the notepad. How she couldn’t bear to look at Villanelle, in case she noticed the intrigue lingering there; like the time it had coloured her face when she saw Villanelle shove Amber’s caretaker in front of the oncoming garbage truck, right in broad daylight, a kill performed just for Eve. Now was as good a time as any to give her a push in the right direction.

“I have enough money in this bank account to keep us going for a long time. We can vacation as long as you like, Eve.” Villanelle smiled broadly. “But sooner or later, things will _escalate_. I’d rather do it on our own terms. We can escape the messes we make ourselves, but if The Twelve or MI6 make those messes for us…”

“Okay okay,” said Eve quickly. “What should we do?”

“We need to find a Keeper here in Switzerland.”

Eve swore under her breath, and added some particularly caustic phrases in Korean for good measure. “Yes, but how?”

“Konstantin and I stayed in a hotel by the river the last time I was here. Which was...a long time ago, okay.” Villanelle admitted. “But it is worth checking out if The Twelve still use it.”

“Look at you, setting goals!” Eve grinned. “And if we somehow find a Keeper there?”

Villanelle shrugged. “We’ll just have to make the rest up as we go along.”

* * *

Zürich collected a fine assortment of boutiques that offered everything from outerwear for ladies and gentlemen to esoteric finds such as quirky wooden art. Sleek, modern restaurants served Mediterranean food along the banks of the Limmat river and cafes bustled with cyclists, locals, and brooding writers alike all spilling onto the charming narrow streets.

Cable cars rumbled past Eve and Villanelle as they crested a hill. They were greeted by rows of colourful houses, their facades recently cleaned and gleaming freshly in the mid-morning sun. There was an elegant, aristocratic house from the 18th century on the corner of the street. It was distinctly bone white, with a blood red front door. Intricate wrought iron balconies complemented the windows on the upper floors, along with the black shutters flung wide open in a seemingly inviting gesture. The flagstone steps that led to the entrance gently curved beside sets of tables and chairs arranged off to the right of a garden gate.

Inside, Eve was immediately struck by the black and white Art Deco pattern that adorned the polished floor. The light flooding from the large windows only accentuated the impressive effect of the lobby: a blood red pillar towered beside the heavy mahogany reception desk, an ornate golden clock ticked away on the wall, and the sliding ebony doors down the hall revealed an adjoining waiting room complete with impeccable caramel coloured leather chairs and a bookshelf groaning with meticulously bound volumes.

While Villanelle admired herself in the large mirror hanging opposite the vertigo-inducing staircase, Eve found herself drifting to one of the leather chairs. A selection of books had been thoughtfully placed on the table beside it. Eve flipped through a few and smiled ruefully; if this were really a vacation (a decidedly _romantic_ one, her mind suggested) then she would surely plop down right here to read and research until well into the night. Even the lamp seemed to nod in agreement with her, its angle appropriately adjusted to helpfully peer over her shoulder.

It was perfectly quiet, too. Sounds from the outside world were muffled by the thick walls, insulated by the heavy curtains on the windows, and generally seemed absorbed into the historic hush that pervaded the hotel. Then Eve heard Villanelle’s voice curling around the corner. Her accent was infused with German and French, carrying a tone sharpened to the point of dismissiveness and a cadence that spoke of her superiority with each passing syllable.

“...no, I do not want your history lesson.”

“But a tour of this place would surely relieve your boredom?”

“Yes!” Eve blurted, silently cursing herself immediately because the words hadn’t marinated long enough in her brain for her to really figure out if she knew what she was doing. “We would love a tour.”

The man chatting with Villanelle greeted Eve with a thin smile, disappointment at her presence flooding into his eyes as she stood well into Villanelle’s personal space. He wore a black suit with a crimson tie, and sported golden cuff links molded into an arrow.

“To begin,” he declared with a clap of his hands, “my family has owned and run this hotel for three generations.”

He ranted about the original hotel layout, the refurbishing of its lobby, how his great, great grandfather had acquired the clock on the wall, how the floor had been ripped up and replaced by the eye-catching pattern, and on and on and on. Eve cut him off when it felt like steam was coming out of her ears from the effort of listening.

“What kind of guests do you usually get?”

The man’s brow furrowed. “What a question! Our guests are very much like yourselves-”

Villanelle laughed uproariously.

“-and they are from all over the world,” the man continued with a venomous glare at Villanelle. “Have you been here before?”

“Yes,” replied Villanelle. “I’ve come back because of your reputation. To see if it still holds up.”

“Oh yes?”

“I want to check in now. Let me give you my name.”

Eve’s heart lurched into her throat when the man made his way to the reception desk and flipped through the guest book. She clenched her clammy hands into fists when he peered at Villanelle intently, his head cocked to the side expectantly.

Villanelle’s smile was sharp, slashed across her face for the purposes of expediency and efficiency. Her German and French accent was now overtaken by her proper Russian one.

“My name is Oksana Astankova.”

* * *

In the hotel’s cavernous wine cellar, Villanelle studied Eve as she, in turn, observed the bound man before them beg for his life.

Eve’s hair was down. It tumbled past her tensed shoulders, trailed alongside her neck. The heavy, dark curls were contrasted by a topaz ombre that seemed to dip into every strand in the moody atmosphere below ground. Eve had a very particular posture when she was intent, Villanelle noticed: she stood very still, her feet close together, and either crossed her arms or clasped them neatly together.

Her poise contained the churning emotions beneath her earnest and thoughtful face. It always seemed soft, even when she watched the world with a breathtaking, single-minded focus. Villanelle had seen that intense look in Eve’s eyes only once, when Eve drove the pocket knife inside her. And she’d give anything to be captured in that gaze again.

Villanelle smirked and sipped some red wine, reveling in the miraculous fact that Eve had agreed to this bid for attention in the first place. Villanelle knew she shouldn’t possibly hope for more; that she should be quivering with gratitude in the simple knowledge that Eve had helped tie the man up, simply on the pretense that a kidnapping would cause enough of a stir without having to necessarily resort to murder.

Really, Eve had agreed to this just because Villanelle had _asked_ her to. That was reason enough for Villanelle to pop open every single bottle arranged on the oak racks and drown herself in wine.

Eve seemed uninterested in the bottles sprawled on the long wooden table, the glasses half empty (or half full) lingering beside messily folded silk napkins. The chairs pushed hastily away from the empty plates, the still-warm hunks of bread nestled in crumbs. The crystal chandelier looming over them all and casting the man’s terror in harsh caricatures of pale, flickering light.  

It was especially a shame that Eve ignored the cork-screw, for example, because it could be delightfully employed against the man’s kneecaps or his ribs. Villanelle would have gladly used it, if only Eve had asked her to. But all she could do was perch on the edge of the table and watch Eve be herself.

“You’re the keeper of this hotel?”

Her question bounced loudly against the stone walls. The man stuttered out his reply.

“Of course.”

“Are you with The Twelve?”

Nothing.

“Are you a Keeper for The Twelve?” Eve tried in the same cordial tone, but she’d crossed her arms already.

The man’s eyes flicked from Villanelle to Eve and then back again. “We will always find you. There’s nowhere to hide.”

“Fair enough,” Eve countered. “But this time, we found you first.”

Villanelle marveled at Eve’s ability to keep her voice steady despite being in the throes of intense emotions. Some primal awareness of Villanelle’s regard flashed across Eve’s face when she glanced over her shoulder. Villanelle’s breath caught in her throat. This was _it_ , she realized. This was Eve’s specialty: finding and shattering fracture points.

Eve had a remarkable _feel_ for understanding people: their emotions, their motivations, their thoughts, their hopes. She laid it all bare, dragged everything squirming into the light to be scrutinized, weaponized.

Villanelle adored how Eve helped her see, because although she could understand the mindset of a person, their emotional undercurrents eluded her. She tried grasping them, but they slipped through her fingers like swiftly flowing water. And she did not care, this was true. But it was entirely besides the point when Eve was around, because she ripped open people’s hearts, letting the emotional fury spray forth from the darkest recesses of their fractured selves.

The knot of fault lines that connected people existed only to be severed by Villanelle, and Eve presented the largest, thinnest threads for them both to follow, tracing back to the here and the now. This was sustenance for the void inside them both; Eve and Villanelle were an open channel, an infinite knot surging within a cycle of power, no quarter given on either side, no wound taken, no possibility of fatigue.

And _there_ it was, Villanelle gloried. She’d caught the exact moment that Eve immersed herself in this shared circuit of dark power, absorbing its limitless source, unwinding until she discovered it coiling deep within. And then she slowly exhaled, lacing her acerbic tone with an authority that made Villanelle’s heart tremble.

“So as a Keeper, what exactly do you keep?”

“Guests.”  
  
“You don’t have very many,” Villanelle observed. “For such a nice hotel, it’s too empty. Maybe I should check upstairs?”

“Yes, do that,” said Eve. “I’ll be right here.”

The second floor of the hotel echoed with emptiness just as much as the lobby. Tastefully decorated rooms with pleasant floral arrangements and generously big beds stood unoccupied. Villanelle couldn’t shake the feeling that it was just like the hotel in Rome, a facsimile of normal life suspended in a perpetual season of transience.

By the time she returned to the lobby, Villanelle could hear the man’s screams reverberating from the cellar. She crept up to the entrance and rested her forehead against the doorframe. Perhaps Eve was making good use of the cork-screw after all; the intervals between the man’s anguish, punctured by his increasingly laboured shrieks, sent Villanelle into fever.

She savoured his choked sobs, his renewed pleas, even the fact that she could not see Eve in this moment. Every nerve in Villanelle’s body demanded that she raced downstairs to take in the scene for herself, to hear the man’s breaths tortured out of his lungs, to see it all draining from his eyes as Eve absorbed herself in the work until it ended with his body slumped in the chair and all his secrets claimed.

Villanelle gripped the door frame until her knuckles turned white. Behind closed eyes, her vision swam with rage and blood and euphoria. She was joined with Eve, of course Eve was there, giving and taking, then taking and giving, but somehow always taking, taking, taking, until the end. She couldn’t bear to stand there listening for a moment longer, not when the pulse thundered in her head and the blood raced in her veins and she hungered to participate.

There was no scale, no sense of time. Villanelle had no idea how long she’d really been waiting there, in the velvet darkness of her mind. She felt a contortion in her physical form, a mild excitement, which might have even been a connection to Eve herself, here in the void they shared. In this space, Villanelle’s memories were more than memories: they became premonitions and hopes and dreams; restless insecurities and longings and dangling threads that gave way to desires soaked in violence and raw willpower.

When the man screamed again, unleashing a horribly pitched, drawn out cacophony, Villanelle could taste freedom. She pictured Eve’s enraptured face, sensed her generous attention, her charisma, her magnetic, musky scent, her anchoring body, and all that passion in her eyes-

The harsh ringing of the phone on the reception desk startled Villanelle.


	4. Aim For The Heart

The clipped, cool, and composed voice on the telephone greeted her.

“Hello, Oksana.”

“Hello, Carolyn.”

In the ensuing silence, it seemed that the clock’s ticking boomed throughout the lobby. Villanelle quickly muffled the end of the handset after a particularly harsh scream drifted upstairs. As soon as it subsided, Villanelle cradled the phone between her neck and her right shoulder.

“Are you having a pleasant stay?” asked Carolyn.

“No. The room service sucks.”

Villanelle could practically see Carolyn’s lips twitch into a smile, only for her to regain control at the very last second and remain stoic.

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Are you taking complaints? Because I have many, starting with the fact that I do not like vacationing while my life is in danger.”

“And what about Eve’s life?”

“Yes, yes, there is Eve too.” Villanelle said, slightly sulkily. “But I am first. Except I don’t want to die first. And I wanted to spend more time in Rome.”

“Ah yes, Rome.” Carolyn clucked her tongue. “What an unfortunate turn of events.”

“How did you find us?” There, that change of topic should show Carolyn who was boss.

Except Carolyn adeptly swerved that topic into an alternative one that made Villanelle swear internally in several languages.

“Do you recall what we discussed in the Russian prison?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, has your impression of Eve improved?”

“Yes,” Villanelle snapped. “She is just as capable as you predicted.” Another scream reached the lobby. “Actually, she’s amazing. And we get along great, professionally and personally or whatever. So what more do you want?”

This time, Villanelle could definitely hear Carolyn’s smile coming through in her voice. “Is Eve there?”

“She is...busy.”

Carolyn started to say something about the urgency of the call, how she needed them both to be aware of certain changed circumstances, and how the new options presented to them could be beneficial.

Villanelle hung up.

* * *

Eve wiped her hands on a napkin, then carefully folded it to hide the blood streaks.

Ignoring the man’s wheezing and whimpering, she gripped the edge of the table. The still cellar air was cool against her heated skin. She felt as though she’d unscrewed her own head, dumped everything out, and then put it back on her shoulders without particularly caring to do it the “right” way. The unmistakably sharp aroma of wine mixed with the earthiness of her surroundings, briefly masking the scents of sweat and fear that seemed to stick to the very stones.

None of this was in her job description. Initiative in the workplace was so rarely rewarded though, Eve consoled herself. It didn’t matter if the man hadn’t said a lot, he’d said enough. After all, Eve could be just as effective at negotiating as Villanelle, she pointed out to herself, and whether that happened in a big red shipping container in the middle of a forest or right here in a decadent wine cellar really didn’t make a difference.

Eve looked at her hands, splayed flat against the table. They were pale now, rubbed clean. Against the dark wood, they looked rather plain and innocuous. There was no trace of their dexterity, efficiency, or precision. An air of professional brutality coated them like some kind of absurdly rare skin cream. Her fingertips continued to tingle, unwilling to discharge their spark of baseness.

All in all, Eve concluded, her hands were steady. Her wedding ring winked at her underneath the chandelier’s glow. She briefly shut her eyes. When she opened them again, Villanelle lingered at the foot of the stairs.

“Did you find anything or anyone else?” Eve asked.

“No.” Villanelle drifted closer. “Are you alright?”

A sigh tugged itself loose from Eve. “I don’t know.”

“Look,” murmured Villanelle as she gently lifted Eve’s left hand. “Your sleeve is stained.”

Eve registered that the stitching around the sleeve on her brown polka-dot blouse was indeed red. She blinked. Villanelle’s fingers were so soft, so reassuringly placed alongside her wrist, just as gently as she’d brushed against them when Eve passed her that loaf of bread back in Rome.

It had been a communion; they’d broken bread together and feasted from the same banquet. There was no shame in that, none at all, for it had brought them here to this exact moment. Standing together, one-on-one, level with each other’s gaze. Villanelle still hadn’t pulled away. In fact her thumb had slyly slid the sleeve farther up Eve’s forearm to reveal more excited skin.

Villanelle’s forefinger traced the flow of Eve’s veins, the intricate lattice work of life that was keeping her animated. If she opened up those same veins right now, Eve was certain that all the emotions swirling inside her would be coloured sanguine. And they would just spill ardently right out of her to douse Villanelle in unadulterated potency. Similar thoughts seemed to be on Villanelle’s mind because her expression was one of rapture: her lips were slightly parted, her pupils blown wide, and her face was the window thrown wide open in a house that hadn’t been freshened in decades.

She gripped Eve’s forearm now with a wiry strength that coveted. One lurch would press them together again, a position Eve found abruptly familiar and surprisingly fitting since they’d embraced against her kitchen sink another lifetime ago. Drowning in Villanelle’s hazel eyes, Eve found nothing but waves of acceptance and a storm of consistent ardor brewing on the horizon of her gaze. Being caught within it was like standing in the middle of a field before the rain.

Eve’s voice was low when she asked:

“Do you think I went too far?”

“No. I’m proud of you.”

And Eve felt Villanelle’s response surge up her spine; gather itself at the base of her skull; light up the left side of her brain; and burst into flames that flared their way through her rib cage. Eve allowed herself a low, shaky laugh because god, she deserved this euphoric moment even if it was spun from borrowed time.

“Proud?”

“Yes. You did what needed to be done.”

Something stirred low in Eve’s stomach. It pulled incessantly at the floor of her insides, prodding her every waking moment and demanding that the bottom gave out, fell away into oblivion for such sweet, sweet release.

“I did what I _wanted_ to do.” Eve declared, and her voice was as steady as her hands.

“That is why I’m proud of you.”

Villanelle dug a fingernail right on top of the most prominent vein. The brief sting from the contact heightened Eve’s senses.

“You’ve never told me that I’m somehow too much for you,” she whispered.

“That’s because you are not.” Now Villanelle pressed the crook of her finger onto Eve’s chin. Her soft touch lingered. She leaned in closer to Eve. “Actually, you are not being enough. I want more.”

A cold void ripped Eve open. The man moaned.

“Oh god-Villanelle, could you-? I mean, you don’t have to do much but-”

“Of course.” Villanelle smiled. “Anything you want, Kill Commander.”

She slowly stepped behind Eve, who attentively watched Villanelle’s hands wrap around the man’s throat. Those same fingers that had been so light and muted against Eve’s own skin moments before now forcefully left dark bruises. Villanelle tilted her head to regard the man’s expression while she drained the air from his lungs, wrung every wisp out between her unwavering clenches.

Eve heard his gagging, the wet, harsh breakage of his windpipe; she concentrated on his faded gasps, the way he thrashed and bucked to the tune of Villanelle’s fingers pressing, closing, claiming.

“Thank you,” she said to Eve afterwards, then promptly poured herself another glass of wine and downed it.

“For what?”

“I like to watch. Especially at the end.”

Upstairs, the telephone rang again. The sound reached Eve and Villanelle as they exited the cellar.

“Who’s calling?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Villanelle replied quickly. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Eve picked up the telephone. “Hello?”

“There you are, Eve.”

“Carolyn. What do you want?”

“May I remind you that you and Villanelle are still employees of the British government, and so must conduct yourselves in the appropriate manner.”

“Of course.”

“I quit!” called out Villanelle. “The work is boring and the pay is shit. I’d rather be self-employed.”

“Villanelle, please-” Eve shifted the handset to her other ear. “Are you sure you don’t want to fire me after Rome?”

“Nonsense. As I said, you are both still employees and that will remain true as long as there is work to be done.”

“What work?”

“Aaron’s death has left our government with a knowledge gap. He had a vast network of information, as you know.”

“Amber can handle it, she is very smart,” Villanelle said.

“Be that as it may, one can ever be too smart or know too much these days.” Carolyn paused. “You and Villanelle will be part of an intelligence gathering operation.”

“What kind of operation?” Eve asked.

“Kenny revealed twelve points of interest.”

Villanelle looked hopeful. “Targets?”

“Kenny said-” Eve closed her eyes momentarily at the guilt that lanced through her chest. “He once mentioned the twelve saints, the twelve days of Christmas…”

“Kenny is here, just so you know. Would you like to speak with him?”

Before Eve could reply, a brief scuffle tossed static across the telephone line. This was followed by Hugo’s voice.

“Well well, Eve. How’s your European expedition going?”

“Please put Carolyn back on.”

“S’okay, you’re on the speaker. Oh by the way Eve, since you fucked me in Rome, does that mean I’ll get promoted soon?”

Eve caught Villanelle’s apparently affronted expression. She mouthed _we need to talk_ while Eve cleared her throat and felt herself turning red.

“Okay well, what exactly are we looking for?”

Carolyn’s voice returned. “USBs.”

“Are you serious?”

“Quite.”

“Let me guess: there’s twelve USBs?”

“Those are the twelve points of interest, yes.”

“Fantastic,” muttered Eve. “I’m thrilled to go on this fetch quest for you while I’m being hunted by a shady organization hell bent on murdering me. Just what I wanted for my middle age crisis.”

“This is your mission, only should you choose to accept it, Eve. You always have a choice.”

“Thanks so much, Carolyn. Any ideas on how I can find these USBs?”

“They’re silver,” echoed Jess’ voice.

“How tacky,” Villanelle commented.

“Great. Anything else?”

“Within The Twelve’s hierarchy, only Keepers are authorized to have these USBs.”

Eve caught Villanelle mouthing to her again, _we were right._

“Uh, it’s not like the Keepers are going to be twirling them on keychains,” said Eve.

“Keepers are obligated to carry the USBs with them at all times. In my experience, it helps to search the body. And all its cavities. As well as to give a thorough going over of any personal possessions and surroundings.”

Villanelle slipped away towards the cellar before Eve could motion for her to stay put.

“So the Keepers keep...data?”

“The Keepers do keep many things: people, places, objects. Depending on the current directive of The Twelve, naturally.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Konstantin is a remarkably resourceful man,” was all that Carolyn put forth. “Currently, the objects in question are USBs with a considerable amount of intelligence stored in them.”

“Okay. Why would we help you?”

“You mentioned being hunted by The Twelve.”

“Is this the part where you offer us witness protection?”

“No. This is the part where I tell you to purchase an iPad, and commit the following security code to memory so that you can download each and every USB you find onto the iPad.”

Eve repeated the code several times in her head and stored it in some abscess in her mind where she kept all important dates and figures.

“Do keep in mind that the iPad is property of the British government. And that we do not condone cyber espionage in any shape or form whatsoever,” Carolyn added. “Further, please entertain the notion that this little fetch quest and evading The Twelve are not mutually exclusive concepts.”

“Fine.” said Eve curtly. “We accept the mission.”

“What will you do for us in return?” Villanelle asked loudly, right into the endpiece, reappearing at Eve’s side and dangling a blood coated USB in her face.

Eve jerked the phone away. “Where should we start looking?”

“Wherever you like. There are important people everywhere.”

“But-”

Carolyn hung up.

* * *

Eve glared at Frankfurt’s jagged skyline as if she had the power to topple it. Skyscrapers of varying heights loomed over the wide canal. Historic houses, galleries, and farmer’s markets clashed against the glassy exteriors of luxe apartments and clubs. The buildings all shoved each other for space, competed for the same polluted air, and scrambled to catch the attention of locals and tourists alike.

The postcard attractions of castles and cathedrals belonged to the primeval forests outside the city limits. Within them, cars whizzed by restaurants and shops crammed together in selected districts, blocks of designated frenzy saturated in blitz.  
  
Eve and Villanelle had chosen to eat on the mid-level terrace of a restaurant overlooking the busy plaza. It also offered a stunning view of the canal being blanketed by the approaching evening.

Four and a half hours after leaving Zürich, Villanelle remained sullen and withdrawn.

“You fucked Hugo?” Villanelle aimed the question at her yet again in that same accusatory, insistent tone.

“Villanelle, please drop it.”

She sniffed sharply. Her eyes had a glassy, detached sheen to them. “Why did you fuck him?”

“I already told you.”  
  
“Tell me again.”  
  
Eve untangled her hair and raked her hands through it. Her answer tumbled from her mouth like an avalanche of stones. “Listening to you masturbate made me horny. But I couldn’t fuck you right then and there, so I fucked Hugo.”  
  
“But you were thinking of me all night?”

“God, yes. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Mmm. I like it every time you tell me.”

Eve stabbed at her sausage. Mashed her already mashed potatoes even harder. Kept her eyes fixed on her food while she chewed. Swallowed hard, then asked:

“What did you mean when you said that you always want more? That it’s not-that I’m not enough?”

“I never said that.”

“Yes you did!”

“No. I didn’t mean that.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Villanelle gulped twice before addressing the question in an unvarying tone.

“I guess what I meant was that you are not being enough because you are always holding yourself back. And I always want...more.”  
  
“More?”  
  
“Of everything.”

“Such as?”

Villanelle tilted her head as she considered the question. “Money. Makeup. Murder,” she emphasized with a quick flash in her eyes. “The very best of everything.”

“Okay, you’re greedy.”  
  
“So are you.”  
  
“I am not!”

“Yes you are,” pressed Villanelle. “What do you want?”

“To finish my dinner.” Eve shoved more food into her mouth and chomped it down with enough force to bite through her tongue.

“What else?”

Eve stared. “You just can’t let this go, can you?”  
  
“Answer me.”

“I want...I want to be okay.”

“And?”  
  
“I want to be good enough.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“I want to be safe. Happy.”  
  
And?”  
  
“I want us to be okay. And most of all, I…”  
  
“What? Say it, Eve.”  
  
Eve carefully set her knife and fork down. Clasped her hands tightly before her on the table. Her eventual answer was barely audible above the noise of traffic and the rest of the people eating on the terrace.

“I want to feel alive.”

“Okay.” Villanelle’s expression betrayed nothing. “What if I said that you wanted too much?”

Eve shrugged.  
  
“Would you still want it? Would you still get it?”  
  
“If I wanted it badly enough, sure.”

“At least I want material things. Those are easier to get. See, you _are_ greedy. Because you want something that doesn’t exactly exist in the real world.”

Eve watched Villanelle devour her food. The realization came crashing down hard, with a note of finality that made her stomach sour and turned the food in her mouth into ashes. She framed her conclusion as a statement, not a question.

“You’re saying that I want something you can’t give me.”  
  
“No. I am saying that we both want _more_. That’s all.”

“But we don’t want the same things.”

“We do.” Villanelle insisted with a full mouth. “I want more.”

“There you go again.” Eve heaved an exasperated sigh. “Of what?”

“Of you.”

It was like being knifed in the heart, Eve thought.

“Oh.”

“You are so stupid, Eve,” said Villanelle with a shake of her head. “You are always holding yourself back, and I always want more. Of your smile. Of your touch. Of your time. Of your attention. Of your thoughts and your feelings. You are not too much for me, I told you. I want more. Of you.”

Relief washed over Eve. The beginnings of a smile introduced itself on her lips, and she dragged her eyes up to finally fully look at Villanelle, expecting her to be warm and pleased at their resolution. Except that Villanelle’s blank expression hadn’t changed at all.

“But maybe, you should go back to Hugo. He can give you everything you want.”

“God, you are impossible.”

“If I am impossible, then I guess you’re just too much for me after all.”

Villanelle daintily wiped her mouth and got up from the table.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Sightseeing,” Villanelle tossed over her shoulder.

* * *

She didn’t come back to the hotel that night.

Eve had frantically texted her the address several times, knowing that Villanelle definitely had her burner phone on her. But at a quarter past one in the morning, she wasn’t sweeping through the lobby with an upturned nose and a majestic stride; she wasn’t beating Eve’s hotel room door down; she wasn’t throwing stones at Eve’s window because she saw that the desk lamp was still on; she wasn’t waving up at Eve from street level with a bouquet of roses tucked under one arm and a bottle of champagne in the other.

The clock just ticked away. Eve’s burner phone stayed remorselessly silent. She distracted herself for a while by messing around with the iPad. Shifting apps around, opening and closing her notes, even scrapping some altogether after tapping out only a few frustrated lines; drafting no less than six versions of a check-in email she’d prepared for Carolyn; panicking when she improperly keyed in the security code for the USBs once; then shoving the iPad inside her handbag so that she wouldn’t have to look at it mocking her for setting the lock screen passcode to 1234.

She quickly took the iPad out again, though, because a sickly feeling gathered in her stomach. Her head pounded the more that her thoughts orbited with increasing speed around planet Villanelle. Immersed in the blue glow of the screen, Eve nudged her trajectory away from Villanelle’s gravitational pull and reoriented herself to focus on the neutral, repetitive tapping and swiping motions of her fingers instead.

Before stringing together the search terms _hacking basics,_ Eve flipped off the iPad’s camera, then swerved her middle finger around the room in full view of the hotel suite’s cameras, just in case MI6 or The Twelve fancied watching. She spent the next hour browsing online articles and picking apart free PDF files that outlined basic terminology, only to end up refining her search terms to _coding basics._

Getting sucked into the black hole of cyberwar, data science, and something called Python for sorting through algorithms, eventually made Eve empty the suite’s minibar. Her alcohol fogged mind processed that coding and hacking came right down to assembling numbers and specific words. So she signed up for an online crash course of sorts that promised to send coding practice packages for the next three weeks. Eve downed the last of the beer, stomped on the can, and cackled at the prospect of not even staying alive for that long.

Morning brought with it spurts of rain that watered the censored garden inside Eve. Worry blossomed in several species of panic; anxiousness choked her like creeping vines; and rage was the soil in which these poisonous plants all grew. They formed an overgrowth in Eve’s mind that she tried to clear by making a list of prominent figures in German politics, economics, and entertainment. It seemed that there were far too many important people in the world, and she wasn’t one of them.

Villanelle still hadn’t returned by the time Eve was miserably picking at her late lunch and scrolling through the latest news. Frankfurt’s lavish, civilized appearance couldn’t be reconciled with headlines that decried thefts and manslaughter, or condemned districts overflowing with prostitution and drugs. Translating the more grisly details made Eve want to restock the minibar.

She tried not to imagine Villanelle getting into trouble. What if she got assaulted by a gang? What if she overdosed in some back alley? What if she got lost and found herself staring down the barrel of a gun? What if she was the one holding the gun, her mind supplied, aiming levelly down the sights for a bit of fun because she was bored?

Eve scrolled down the page faster. At the bottom of the newsfeed, one particular headline caught her eye. A local politician had just renewed his personal security contract with the same company that had come under fire for allegedly funding his reelection campaign. A quick follow up search revealed that the company specialized in cybersecurity and that the politician’s newest bodyguard also happened to have a very sharp skill set in data analysis and visualization.

It was just a hunch, but it compelled Eve to stalk their address (thank god for satellites), commit it to memory, and run halfway down the hall before she realized that she’d forgotten her burner phone. It waited for her on the bedside table, this chunky, blocky device that was as heavy as a brick, and just about as subtle as one. 

Eve peered into her handbag, already crowded with the iPad and a jungle of all the things she apparently absolutely needed to have. She flipped open the phone while hating herself for hoping that any trace of Villanelle would pop up when she did. Her stomach sank anyway when there were no messages or missed calls. The thought that there was no point in taking it anyway guided Eve’s hands to the garbage bin.

But what if Villanelle returned to the hotel while she was gone? What if she suddenly needed Eve’s help? What if Eve needed to call the police? _Fuck._ Eve rapidly texted Villanelle.

_where are you? what’s going on?_

_you’ve been gone for hours and hours now_

_it got dark out and it was late and I couldn’t sleep because I was worried_

_I’m still worried_

_will you please answer me?_

Eve waited for a few seconds that stretched into minutes, which felt like hours. The phone remained relentlessly unresponsive and stubbornly quiet. Eve buried it at the bottom of her handbag. Hurling herself into motion felt good. She had a goal now, she had a reason to be chasing down public transportation and peering down crooked streets instead of waiting in the hotel room. She told herself that she was only scouting a possibility (no, she wasn’t searching for Villanelle, not at all).

Unease seized Eve when she finally reached the spot mapped out in her head. The building of the security services company was so tall that it forced her to tilt her head all the way back to entirely take it in. Opaque silver windows made up the exterior. The only glimpse that Eve had of the interior was when the revolving doors actually rotated to unveil flashes of business suits, the corners of the intimidating reception desk, and bursts of curt conversation.

She didn’t know the floor plan; she’d never seen the layout of the lobby; she was an unarmed civilian; she technically didn’t even exist to the rest of the world; and not even her well stocked handbag could knock over a muscular, fully armed and trained security guard.

Eve walked inside.

* * *

If love made you do crazy things, then anger made you do stupid things.

Villanelle admired how glorious Eve looked in her anger: the harsh angle of her jaw, the strain on her usually pliant posture, the restlessness of her fingers, the lightless depths of her haunted eyes, the barely hidden tremors in her voice, the way she flipped from dangerously quiet to explosive in a heartbeat. Yes, it was all a glorious and alluring picture indeed.

Eve was very stupid and oblivious in her anger, too. For example, she hadn’t noticed that Villanelle was tailing her for the past few hours. She should have caught Villanelle on the bus, sitting at the back and lazily gazing out the window, but instead Eve jostled for space at the front and paid more than the bus fare was worth because she didn’t understand a word of German.

Villanelle had expected her to take the bus all the way to the station near the airport; at which point she could have bought a one-way ticket back to London. Not that she would have lived long enough to appreciate her mistake, of course, but that really wasn't the point. Eve _hadn’t_ made a run for it. She’d exited in the heart of Frankfurt’s business district instead, which was enough for Villanelle cancel their dinner reservations at the most expensive restaurant.

She’d played with the silver USB tucked into the right pocket of her jacket while she followed Eve. The kill had been an unexpected one, and all the more pleasurable for it: last night’s sightseeing hadn’t been a complete lie because Villanelle did make quite a spectacle of herself in front of a brothel. The owner of the fine establishment had appeared to remove her from the premises himself, then it only took one glance at her to change his mind. He didn’t understand the word “no” in either its English or German forms, but he did understand the meaning well enough when Villanelle sawed through his penis and translated with him excitedly, loudly, over his screams.

Villanelle knew that The Twelve had infiltrated several sex trafficking rings in Europe already, including the Polish one she’d been tasked to eliminate during the first month that her and Eve had met. Villanelle counted on there being a ring in Germany, and she believed she would have been recognized fairly quickly, just not before she’d gotten a chance to play the victim. It was thanks to men’s most primal urges that she’d walked away with her prize so soon, even if it took her a day longer to temporarily lose their trail.

For once, it would be nice if Eve wasn’t heroic and instead patiently waited for Villanelle to come back. But no, Eve was angry for some reason. Villanelle saw it in the way she walked, the way she absentmindedly swung her handbag. And Eve was worried, judging by her onslaught of text messages, although the burst of attention was more than welcome. Keeping Eve in her sights was easy enough, Villanelle supposed, but keeping her alive was a challenge.

She didn’t even look both ways before crossing the street! It took all of Villanelle’s self control not to pull her back from the crosswalk as a car sped by them. Eve determinedly made her way to some security company building and stood outside for five whole minutes. Still angry, still oblivious to Villanelle watching her with crossed arms and a concerned pout. She groaned when Eve entered the building. Waited exactly two minutes. Then Villanelle went inside herself.

Eve paced restlessly near the reception desk. Her hair was tamed in a tight bun. Her face caved in when she finally caught sight of Villanelle.

“Oh my god, where have you been?”

Villanelle nodded over her shoulder. “Now is not the best time to talk.”

A team of three officers carrying handguns had stomped out of the elevators and was marching over to them. Without preamble, one officer fired his gun. The shot burst through the revolving doors; the shattered glass panel spilled across the polished floor and made Eve shriek.

“‘Shoot first, ask questions later’ is a shitty PR policy,” Villanelle announced. She ducked herself and Eve behind the end of the reception desk. “Eve! Don’t panic. There’s only three of them.”

The officer that fired at them came around the desk. Villanelle’s hand jerked up. Clamped around his wrist. And she dragged him down again just as more shots burst over her head. Eve helped Villanelle wrestle his gun away. She gasped then clutched her ears once Villanelle emptied a bullet into his head.

“Just like a melon!” Villanelle yelled over the gunfire.

She leaned over the top of the reception desk and fired two shots directly into the remaining officer’s chests. The gun fell to the floor, taking all the thrill with it. Villanelle stared blankly until Eve staggered to her feet. She couldn’t stop looking at the pool of blood oozing from behind the reception desk.

“Whenever you shoot to kill, you must aim for the heart. Or the head.”

Eve seemed to curl into Villanelle’s voice. “Right. I  was trying to get-”

“I know. It’s okay.” Villanelle grinned. “I got it.”

“You already got the USB?” asked Eve incredulously.

“‘Thank you for saving my life Villanelle!’” imitated Villanelle. “‘Oh you are welcome Eve, you are such a well-mannered Kill Commander, so nice and polite!’

“Give it here.”

Eve snatched the USB from Villanelle with trembling fingers. She immediately shoved it into the iPad. The screen flickered to life. Numbers and code began to appear with a pointed ping! that made Eve flinch.

The sequence was still going during their swift checkout from the hotel. Villanelle ushered her to and from the taxi that took them to the airport. Eve bought tickets to Belgium thanks to its proximity, but her movements were automatic and devoid of their usual vivaciousness. It wasn’t until they’d boarded the plane and settled in that she said hoarsely:

“Let’s try not to get separated again.”

“Agreed.”

“I’m only letting you have the window seat this time because you saved my life, you know.”

Villanelle smirked. “I usually sleep naked, just so you know.”

“Oh.”

“You can also sleep naked. For balance.”

Eve sat completely still. Villanelle scoured her face for hints. It was harder to tell when Eve’s eyes were closed. If there were any traces at all of her considering that vivid mental picture, she did not give them away. Her breathing steadied after takeoff and her head rested at an angle that spilled some curls onto Villanelle’s shoulder.

“So if I had been there instead of Hugo, you really would have fucked me instead?”

“Go to sleep, Villanelle.”  


	5. Off The Grid

Weary passengers pulled their suitcases through the musty airport hallways, trudged to the squeaky conveyor belts to sort through their belongings, fumbled for packs of smokes, and collectively barreled their way outside to the brisk morning air. 

The Brussels airport was a concave structure that reminded Villanelle of the inside of a zeppelin. Thin steel support beams formed the backbone of walls, arches, and columns. The long, long roof was slate grey. Obsidian statues towered over the main entry gate. Crowds funneled between them under the watchful eye of security guards and cameras. 

Villanelle slept fitfully on the plane. She hadn’t eaten anything for the last forty eight hours. Her eyes pricked with dryness and irritation. She almost missed the flash of movement to her right, the trickle of bodies rearranging themselves in line. Carefully, she looked harder at the gaps, reached out for the displaced energies that masked impending violence. Her hand was on Eve’s back and promptly steering her towards one of the neon lit exists to their left before she fully completed the leap between impulse and action. 

 “Move.”

 Eve obeyed. As they approached a security checkpoint, she readied their passports.

 "No more using passports,” hissed Villanelle into Eve’s ear. “We’ve got to be completely off the grid.”

 "What’s the big deal?”

 “They’ll be able to trap us better if they know where we’ve been and exactly where we’re going.” 

 “Shit.” Eve slung her handbag over her shoulder. “How are we going to get past security now?”

 “I hate to tell you this darling Eve, but we’re already trapped.”

 “Oh _fuck_ -”

 “Don’t panic,” added Villanelle. “Whatever you hear, whatever happens. We’ll get out of this. Here.” Villanelle grasped Eve’s hand. “Just don’t let go. Whatever happens. Don’t let go. Okay?”

 “Okay.”

 Villanelle screamed at the top of her lungs.

 “We have a bomb! Everybody get back!”

The bubble of calm that seemingly kept the crowd in check shattered. People screamed immediately. The checkpoint guards elbowed their way over and bellowed into their walkie-talkies. Eve hoisted her handbag in full view as Villanelle repeated that they had a bomb, causing fresh waves of panic to ripple through the crowd. She roughly shouldered torsos away, deflected outstretched hands, lashed out with kicks that eased a bit of breathing room between her and Eve, and the outskirts of bodies either lunging into their proximity or cowering away from them. 

Eve clutched Villanelle’s hand hard enough to make her knuckles crack. Villanelle squeezed back with equal force. 

Movement diverted her attention away again. She briskly kept them going past the security checkpoint. The mass of bodies pressed closer together, suffocating the already threadbare route to the nearest exit. Eve elbowed someone in the ribs and tugged Villanelle along past suitcases with coats draped over them, past reunited families, past teenagers that whipped their phones out, and past a clot of security guards that tried to cut their way through a horde of unboarded passengers. 

Along the perimeter, there was more space to move. Villanelle urged them on diagonally to the exit. People glared at her as she waved and weaved a stream of least resistance. The packed mob still swarmed the exit. A faint scent of ozone crackled in the air. An authoritative voice blared announcements over the speakers. Eve’s hand was sweaty in Villanelle’s grip, occasionally sliding loosely over her palm. Villanelle could feel Eve’s quickened pulse beating against her wrist.  

“We’re almost out. Eve, I’m going to let go of your hand now.”

Villanelle checked Eve; she nodded sharply. When their fingers disengaged, Villanelle felt the loss of contact like a phantom limb. She used both hands to part a gap ahead of them and pulled Eve through. They exited onto the blissfully airy tarmac. Eve heaved freshness into her lungs as Villanelle took in the flat, slanting, lines of the airport’s facade. Buses and taxis approached and departed every few seconds. Villanelle hailed a taxi that rolled to a neat stop in front of them. She practically tossed Eve inside, messy handbag and all. 

The driver began berating them in Dutch, snippets of which Villanelle barely grasped, but he quickly switched to English when he heard Villanelle murmuring assurances to Eve. Villanelle’s hand darted into Eve’s purse and came up holding numerous crisp Euro bills. 

“Drive!” 

“Where?”

“Anywhere, just drive! I will pay you double if you lose them. Go!” 

Villanelle kept Eve and herself low in the back seat. Sirens began to wail. A fleet of armoured cars slinked up to the front entrance of the airport. People stampeded outside, gathered into amorphous blobs on the transportation terminal. Many had their heads bowed to their phones, absorbed in digital worship, and didn’t notice anyone suspicious in the backseat of a speeding taxi. 

Underneath Villanelle’s palm, Eve’s heart beat to the pace of a terrified, fleeing rabbit. 

* * *

“I thought it would be best if we had our little meeting in my home. The MI6 headquarters can be so intimidating.”

 Carolyn set down a steaming mug in front of Amber Peel. She apprehensively bobbed the tea bag several times as Carolyn slowly stirred some honey into her own tea. 

“How are you holding up?” asked Carolyn.

“Fine. I’ve just been throwing myself at work.”

“I understand.” Carolyn tapped her fingers on the oak table, squinted at the sunlight flooding the study, and sighed. “I thought about killing my own brother several times. Mostly when we were children.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let’s cut to the chase.” The scrape of the chair as Carolyn dragged it further in made Amber flinch. “Eve and Villanelle had no reason to kill Aaron. I expressly told them not to, many times.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!” spluttered Amber. “They could have done it anyway!”

“Ah, but they didn’t. Consider this,” Carolyn chided gently. “To the public you appear to have every motivation to kill your brother anyway, thanks to his money and his company. I’m sure that there were personal reasons as well.”

Amber smoothed the material of her skirt and kept her gaze fixed on the leg she’d crossed at her knee. “It was fish poisoning,” she maintained flatly. 

“And I’ll make sure that it stays that way at MI6.” Carolyn’s face suddenly brightened. “Now to business. You’ve taken over the intelligence portion of Pharaday UK and you’re still using Aaron’s program. But the rest is proving hard to get rid of, isn’t it?”

Amber nodded. “I don't trust any of Aaron's buyers. So I thought the safest buyer to turn to would be the British government.”

“Clever girl.” Carolyn sipped her tea to hide the beginnings of a smirk. “We’ve lost too many good agents in the field. It is not ideal.”

“Pharaday’s fleet of surveillance and artillery drones would boost your manpower.”

“That’s the idea. And I have no doubt it will eventually replace our manpower altogether. That is also not ideal, but I’m afraid we have no choice. MI6 must move with the times.”

“Why isn’t it ideal?”

“I am from a different time. Which makes me a bit of a relic, I suppose. I’m just used to dealing with people and bringing out the best in them. Machines are different.” 

“Not that different,” Amber countered smoothly. “Pharaday’s AI program makes machines about as lifelike as you can get. It’s almost like talking to a real human being. Besides, you’d need to train a whole new department of humans to manage your new technology.”

Carolyn’s voice held mild approval. “That’s a very good sales pitch. But ‘almost’ is still the key word.”

They spent the next hour negotiating the terms and price of their business arrangement. Another set of mugs were brought out, as well as fresh biscuits that Kenny bought from the store earlier that morning. Eventually, Amber scrawled her signature at the bottom of an agreeable contract. Carolyn promptly downed the last of her tea, then got up to put the mugs away in the kitchen. Amber’s soft voice interrupted her. 

“Carolyn?”

“Mm?”

“Why did you want to kill your brother?”

“Mostly to stop him from harming any more hamsters. I really can’t stand animal abuse.”

“Did you...kill your brother?”

“I’m afraid he had a rather tragic accident in his late thirties. Suicide by hanging, you know.”

“Oh. Did you-”

“Also throw myself into work as a coping mechanism? Yes. We’re quite similar in this way.” Carolyn yawned. “Thank you for meeting with me. I’m sure we’ll see each other again. Shall I show you out?” 

* * *

The city of Ghent in Flanders, Belgium looked frozen in time. Medieval design was still prominent in its layout and architectural landmarks. A cathedral and its abbey dominated the confluence of the Leie and Scheldt rivers. Their craggy stone walls, soaring spires, and stained glass windows languished over a cobblestone bridge that arched tranquility over the sparkling water. 

An inn near the flower strewn river bank had tidy, clean and cozy rooms that faced the docks. A dirt path extended from the inn’s courtyard to caress the corners of shops, market stalls, and radiant facades. Then the path continued past the city’s outskirts and wound into flat meadows; fields lined with apple blossoms and hedges; patches of cultivated woodland; tree-lined canals and cycling paths; soft areas of sand dunes; the blood-red poppies of Flanders Fields; and changing shades of rolling hills.

Eve and Villanelle had chosen the inn’s attic room with its rustic touches of massive exposed wooden beams and carefully preserved stone floors. Its height gave them a sweeping view of the square marked by one round and one rectangular tower, as well as a water well. For the entire week following their airport debacle, Villanelle kept watch by the window while Eve completed her first coding practice package. She went long into the night, the iPad silently heating in frustration  and occasionally vibrating to announce Carolyn’s responses to Eve’s vehement check-in emails.  
  
And Eve would wake, her hair unmanageable and her caffeine deficit already kicking in, to the same sight of Villanelle by the window. Yesterday morning had been an especially haunting sight: rain drops chased each other down the frosty dawn-coloured pane and Villanelle’s silhouette was outlined by the increasingly vibrant red sunrise. Her hair dangled loose from the way she rested her forehead against the glass. Small shadows retreated into the folds of her matte-gold kimono. Her expression was a mirror breathing above a cracked porcelain sink, her eyes holding more souvenirs than memories. 

When Eve came up from behind to wrap her hands around Villanelle’s midriff and to rest her chin on Villanelle’s shoulder, she didn’t shift her position at all. Her spine remained stiff. Her hands hung loosely at her sides. In the absence of any perfume or skin cream, she smelled purely of warmth, protection, decadence, and temptation. Eve inhaled. It was like trying to pick out several individual scents in a stunning floral arrangement that produced a mesmerizing, ethereal effect, but coyly refused to reveal exactly what it was made of. 

“We have been too long in one place.”

Villanelle’s voice was huskier than usual. Eve felt each roused syllable and smoky inflection reverberate beneath her chin and rest right into her bones. 

“That’s what you said when we first got here. And the day after that, too. But here we are. Still alive.”

Villanelle unstuck her forehead from the window pane. “I don’t think anyone followed us.”

“We both agreed that we need to rest for a few days. Villanelle,” Eve said, her voice determined. “We aren’t machines. If we keep burning the candle at both ends, there won’t be anything left of us to kill.”

“Does being on the run make you feel alive?”

The rain pattered against the haloed glass during a brief silence. 

“Sort of. It gets my adrenaline going, if that’s what you mean. Why?”

“I’ve realized that it doesn’t matter what we do, as long as we’re together.” Now Villanelle eased herself back against Eve, abruptly robbed of anxious tension. “You make me feel alive. That’s all I need, all I’ve ever wanted.” 

Eve’s pulse leapt. Heat flared in her veins. Her breath quivered in the back of her throat, unsure of what words to squeeze into. 

“You haven’t slept much. I’m worried,” murmured Eve. It seemed like the appropriate response. She settled for a tone that hopefully sounded much calmer than she truly felt. 

Villanelle had the advantage of not making her expression available. “You’re not sleeping much either. Hypocrite.” 

The kimono’s finely woven material was thick enough to cover up any change of breathing or rushing throb below the surface. As far as Eve could tell, Villanelle was unaffected. This kept Eve hesitating until Villanelle tilted her head ever so slightly in invitation. Then Eve delicately placed her lips on the side of Villanelle’s neck. 

Tasting her sent a lurch through Eve. The flavour was raw, tinged with enthusiasm, and somehow impossibly sweet. Eve continued pressing light kisses slowly and tenderly up and down the area Villanelle had generously exposed. She did not sway, she did not moan when Eve’s lips grazed the spot just underneath her ear, or when her tongue trailed down to Villanelle’s collarbone and retraced over the path her lips had just imprinted.

Eve’s head spun. The air was charged with the tension between their bodies. One quick turn of Villanelle’s head would gift Eve the perfect angle with which to join their lips, to meld the intoxicating, mounting heat they shared. Some distant part of Eve’s mind recalled that Niko used to hold her like this, used to kiss her like this. His arms would form a hard barrier around her body, his tongue and stubble would tickle her neck while he put his overly-wet lips on her neck, and he always seemed hurried or preoccupied. Eve hadn’t imagined that she would be the one leading this scenario with Villanelle, but it felt way too good to debate her own motivations or to get swept away by doubt. 

As soon as Villanelle reached back and entwined her right hand in Eve’s hair, all the air whooshed out of Eve’s lungs. Her neck kisses became harder and more urgent. A short, breathy moan slipped from Villanelle at the same moment her fingers threaded through Eve’s curls to grasp a fistful of them. Warm shivers rippled along Eve’s spine with each insistent tug of her hair. Her hands scraped the length of Villanelle’s sides, silently pleading for permission to do more. Eve could so easily alter their route so that she cupped Villanelle’s breasts, nestled in the gold material which covered them in what seemed like a honey glaze. Eve’s fingers itched to tease Villanelle’s perked nipples, but she had no reliable point of reference about how to do that properly; again, flickering images of Niko roughly skating over her achingly hard nipples only as a preamble to commence pounding into her made Eve’s expression twist into one of frustration and dull disappointment. 

Villanelle’s grip coming to rest on the back of Eve’s neck sucked her back into the moment. She brushed Villanelle’s hair aside and mirrored the gesture, kissing the back of Villanelle’s neck and tugging the kimono’s collar down to give her better access to vast expanses she hadn’t yet explored. Clouds of fear drifted across Eve’s mind, made her hands tremble with uncertainty; would Villanelle just let Eve heave the hem of the kimono up, let Eve slide her fingers up and into Villanelle’s pulsating wetness, let Eve fuck her slowly but surely, over and over, against this window? But what if she simply wasn’t good enough to please Villanelle? 

Eve’s one hand lingered on the kimono’s sash. The other one drifted up to Villanelle’s chest. Underneath Eve’s palm, Villanelle’s heartbeat was a caged bird fluttering against its imprisonment. 

“Come to bed,” suggested Eve.

Villanelle’s hand slipped out from Eve’s hair. A hushed blanket settled around her shoulders. She didn’t respond immediately. Eve expected some sarcastic remark or maybe for her to spin around and ravish Eve, push her back onto the bed behind them. But Villanelle offered an honest admission instead, peeking from behind a raspy chuckle. 

“I _am_ tired.” 

“Come to bed,” Eve repeated. “Just to sleep.”

They guided each other to rest in between the covers. Villanelle’s back was flush against Eve’s front. She draped Eve’s arm over her and exhaled onto the pillow. Eve wasn’t usually big spoon, she reflected, but somehow, someway this would do: the reassurance of holding Villanelle close, of breathing just over the top of her head, of feeling her hair slightly tickle the edge of her nose, of knowing that Villanelle was _here_ and that she was _real._

The next day, Eve and Villanelle sat on one of the benches that circled the square’s well. They watched couples stroll by hand in hand. Eve felt like the last shadow that passed over a blank canvas in an empty art museum. Waiting to be found dragged time like a blade over her. 

Villanelle looked carefree as she gorged on her  _gestreken mastel_ , a cinnamon sandwich in the form of a bagel, cut in half and generously smeared with butter and caramelized sugar. Her eyes narrowed at some couples emerging from the cobblestoned alley beside a pub, laughing and kissing in between laughs, running through the square and whooping. 

“Look at them, being all happy. Acting like they’re on top of the world,” sneered Villanelle. “They’ll break up in two or three years anyway." 

“You’re too young to be this bitter and cynical.”

“Not really.” Villanelle scowled. “If you think about it, unless you are dating for true love that means you are only dating to break up.”

“That’s a very black and white view.”

“Sure. But it’s not any less true. These days people get bored and move on from each other too quickly. There is no commitment.”

“How come?”

“They forget the value of having a real connection. And because they don’t know what they want. Or they don’t want true love.”

Eve peered at Villanelle. “What do you want?”

“When I love someone, I want them to be like you. I want true love.”

“Which means?”

“I want to love them for life. I want them to love me for life.”

“And what about the ones who don’t? Do you just cast them aside?”

“Of course. I take what I can and then I move on. Don’t you?”

“Um. Not like that.”

“Uh-huh. Really?”

“I actually spend time with people I like.”

“I see. You do this so it only hurts more when you eventually leave.” Villanelle chewed on her bottom lip. “How long have you been married to Niko?”

“Ten years,” answered Eve quietly.

“Okay. You don’t count.” Villanelle stuck out her tongue. “He is not your true love.”

“Oh, and you are?”

“Yeah. You said it, Eve.”

Eve frantically swept her hair up into a bun. Her heart was an overripe fruit squeezed to bursting, oozing and dripping down the walls of her ribcage. Villanelle’s presence sometimes felt like thick, leaded glass, other times like blinding light-but always, it was a protective layer between herself and the world, between what she thought or knew or felt, and what actually was. 

In reality, in the real world, Eve and Villanelle sat on a bench. In her head, Eve excavated a gap between her body and her mind until she found a narrow space between the two in which to exist. In reality, there was a buzzing noise gathering from the cobblestone alley. In her head, Eve flipped through photo-album memories of her honeymoon: fragments of Niko’s crooked smile and her own tight-lipped imitation of one; his stuffy suit chafing against the side of her sleeveless dress; their footprints along the shoreline quickly being erased by the incessant tide; and Eve noticed that the edges of some memories had grown tattered, some were even covered with a film of dust. 

In reality, Villanelle was yelling something, and then yelling louder, and a tingling sensation spread from the soles of Eve’s feet up to the tips of her fingers, increasingly electrifying every nerve ending. Villanelle seized Eve’s arm. The shock of contact propelled Eve to her feet. Villanelle scrambled them behind an old rock wall near the dirt path leading out of the city. Only when Eve’s ears started ringing did she register that they were being assaulted by a drone peppering their location with bullets. 

Bits of rock showered down on Eve and Villanelle. Chips bit into Eve’s exposed neck and chest, crumbled down the front of her v-neck shirt, embedded themselves into her mane of disorderly hair. Villanelle crouched with her shoulder against the rock wall. Pale dust settled into her hair and ghosted on her face, giving her a ghoulish pallor. The air smelled chalky and explosive. 

Bullets continued to shred the sky, the stone, the cord of survival that bound Eve and Villanelle together. 

The distance between the wall and the hotel’s courtyard looked uncrossable. Regardless, Villanelle’s posture was poised to bolt into motion at any moment. Eve wanted to freeze her in this moment, to sew together the fabric of reality and keep it locked in place, as if Eve wasn’t existentially fabricated to cause Villanelle’s destruction with each paralyzed breath and every (poor) decision. 

But Villanelle’s movement defied capture. The motion that drew the drone’s attention away and briefly made it stop firing was uncanny and strange; Villanelle’s legs probably meant to carry  her over the top of the splintering wall and crashing into the drone, like she could rip it down from the sky. Instead, Villanelle used the wall as a springboard to propel herself away from the cracking stone, away from the drone...away from Eve.

Too fast for the drone’s sensors to track, Villanelle ran off with a puff of dust. The drone recalibrated itself and whizzed in pursuit of her, the crack of bullets growing more distant by the second.  
  
Through it all, Eve couldn’t move.  

* * *

 

Much later, when the sun had dropped from the sky to be replaced by the moon, Eve loomed expectantly in the attic window. Her handbag rested on the windowsill. A duffel bag perched on the edge of the bed, stuffed with changes of clothing, several expeditiously acquired wigs, pounds of makeup, and a first-aid kit. 

Eve clutched car keys. In the hours that followed the drone’s ambush, she’d acquired a compact, serviceable car. She’d even mapped out the two and a half hour route that would take them from Ghent to the town of Lisse in the Netherlands. 

Villanelle would return any minute now, Eve told herself firmly. She would, she would. 

There was no doubt about it, none whatsoever! It was just taking some time. Eve checked her watch. That’s all, it was just taking some time. Villanelle was on her way back, for sure. She’d outpaced the drone. She’d outsmarted it. She hadn’t run out of breath. She hadn’t overestimated herself. She hadn’t felt leaden tiredness grow in the muscles of her arms and legs. She hadn’t been shot in the back or the foot while bolting down a country road, yelping in pain as she fell face down. She wasn’t a bullet-ridden corpse in the middle of a field. She wasn’t, she wasn’t. 

Eve checked her watch yet again. Seconds crawled by. 

_We have been too long in one place._

Eve closed her eyes tightly to stop her eyes from leaking tears.

_He is not your true love._

Eve remembered the way Villanelle’s voice had held such conviction, such fondness and promise. The delighted glow in her eyes as she’d sat on that bench with Eve, the lighthearted way she’d taken in their surroundings, the buoyancy in her step as she fell in sync with Eve, happy just to be with Eve.  

Without conscious thought, Eve found herself sitting on the bed. She held her head in her hands and sobbed. Her entire body shuddered with the force of the grief and terror that wracked her. The thought of losing Villanelle split her right down the middle, eviscerated all other rationality. Villanelle had stood at this very window yesterday morning, had snuggled up with Eve in this very bed. Now she wasn’t here, and Eve couldn’t think properly, couldn’t numb the intensity of her agony, couldn’t contemplate any of her tomorrows without Villanelle in them.  

The sound of the attic door being battered choked off Eve’s sobbing. She hastily wiped her tears away and threw it open. Villanelle slumped against the doorframe, wearing a lopsided grin. Her blouse was sweat stained and torn. She reeked of some foul combination of chemicals and smoke.  Her knees and shoes were caked with mud.  

Wordlessly, she reached out for Eve’s hand. Pressed her palm into it. Relinquished a charred but unmistakably silver USB. Stumbled over the landing past Eve, muttering something about needing a shower. 

Eve gasped. “Villanelle, your back!”

Villanelle lazily turned her head. “Hmm?”

Eve was at her side in an instant. “Fuck, fuck! Take your blouse off.”  
  
“I’m fine, Eve.”  
  
“No you’re not! Take it off! Here-”  
  
Eve quickly tugged the blouse up and over Villanelle’s head. She looked like she could barely stand. Eve maneuvered her to the bed and carefully set her down beside the duffle bag. Eve rummaged around until she found the first aid kit and tore it open, gathering bandages, gauze, and antiseptic. She poured it over Villanelle’s gunshot wound; the bullet’s trajectory to Villanelle’s right shoulder blade looked like a glancing shot, perhaps grazing Villanelle as she turned a corner or hopped a fence. 

Focusing on sterilizing the inflamed, bloody area made Eve appreciate the miraculous fact that she was looking at a flesh wound. And that Villanelle was alive, even if she was shaking and swearing and flinching underneath Eve’s touch. When she’d finished mopping up the gore, Eve overturned the attic until she found a needle and some spool tucked away in the bathroom cupboard. 

Her hands shook so badly that she could barely pull the black thread through the needle’s eye. The fifth attempt did the trick. Eve steeled herself, took a deep breath, and announced that she was going to sew the wound up.

Villanelle eyed the spool warily. “Is that the only colour you have?”

“What? Why does it matter?”

“I like to keep a good aesthetic.” Villanelle almost shrugged, then thought better of it with a grimace. “Do you have any pink thread?” 

“No I do not! Hold still!”

Eve imagined that she was merely examining another crime scene photo, another stomach-churning illustration of the damage that a bullet could do. She isolated Villanelle’s shoulder blade from the rest of Villanelle, treating it as its own fleshy island amidst a sea of shattered nerves and oozing blood. 

Villanelle didn’t make a sound. Eve tried to make conversation to distract her, or maybe to break the suffocating silence. 

“Thank you for saving my life, Villanelle.”

A pause. Then:  
  
“Again,” suggested Villanelle. 

Eve halted in the middle of a stitch. “Again,” she acknowledged, through gritted teeth. 

“You are welcome, Eve.” Villanelle inhaled sharply as she felt her skin scream through another pierce of the needle. “Thank you for saving my life, Eve.”

Eve almost dropped the needle altogether. “Of course.” 

She worked a few more stitches in, fighting her stinging eyes and the exhaustion dripping from her fingers. “We’re almost done. By the way, how did you find the USB?” 

“It was inside the drone, in some black box. I had to break it open with a rock.”

“Good thing you managed to take it offline.” Eve muttered. 

“I didn’t,” grunted Villanelle. “It chased me almost the whole way. Then it suddenly just powered down. Still shot me first, though.” 

“Then it must have lost contact with its controller.” Eve’s brow furrowed as she absent-mindedly inserted the remaining stitches.  
  
“Ow!”  
  
“Sorry!”

Villanelle inspected the duffel bag as soon as Eve snipped the completed thread and pressed fresh bandages onto the wound. “I am looking for something nice to cover this up. Do you have any Givenchy or Chloé in here?”  
  
Eve tossed her an orange jumper and glared as Villanelle gingerly slipped it on. 

“Do you think you’ll be able to travel?” 

“Yeah.” Villanelle smiled thinly. “I’ve been hurt worse than this. One of my most recent injuries was a stabbing, you know.”

 “Are you sure you’re alright?” Eve’s voice was low and rough. “I’ve got a car for us parked outside the courtyard.”  
  
“Then let’s go.”

The car’s headlights illuminated their way outside the city, then enabled them to wade through the feral darkness of Belgium’s countryside. A wolf’s chilling howl drifted through the open windows. Eve’s hair billowed in the cool air. The iPad stuck out from her handbag in the back seat; the glow from its sequence in progress caressed the duffel bag nestled against it, as if seeking comfort from its own species. 

In the passenger seat, Villanelle had positioned herself so that she was mostly resting on her uninjured side. The seat belt simultaneously formed a bit of a support and a makeshift splint that kept her from accidentally placing weight on her weakened muscles. Every time the unpaved road vibrated, Eve’s eyes darted to Villanelle’s shoulder blade to check that the stitches hadn’t burst and ruined the car’s upholstery. 

Eve mostly kept her eyes on the road. And Villanelle mostly avoided looking at Eve. The next time that Eve glanced over, Villanelle had turned her head away. All Eve could discern in the dim light was her smudged silhouette and the rhythmic sound of her laboured, but steady, breathing. 

The pain in Eve’s chest was so clear, like metal glinting. It was a roaring burn of severing that demanded that Eve felt it, unwaveringly. Villanelle kept on inhaling and exhaling, softly inhaling and exhaling. 

And as long as she could hear Villanelle breathing, Eve resolved to keep being the very air that she breathed.


	6. Murderous Tendencies

Villanelle was bored.

She rolled the window down to catch the dawn breeze. On the horizon, subdued hues of blue and purple melted to make way for the radiance of the sun. The shapes of windmills stood out starkly in the distance. On both sides of the car, parallel lines of red, blue, violet, and yellow tulips ran side by side, swaying closer in the breeze, yet never coming into contact. 

Eve had stopped the car to get out and stretch. But she soon grabbed the iPad to snap photos of the fields, exclaimed “wow!” every few seconds, and hadn’t bothered to direct any of her refreshing enthusiasm in Villanelle’s direction. Her wound throbbed. The stitches were already itchy, and the distraction of having a cleft in her right shoulder blade brought with it the accompanying irritation of knowing that she had to favour her left hand more for shooting or stabbing. 

At least having a weapon wouldn’t have been _boring._ She would cradle it in her lap (or conceal it in the glove compartment if Eve was truly uncomfortable) or clean it, or reload it, or stroke it, anything to keep herself focused on increasing their chances of survival. Anything to keep her distracted from the fact that Eve had seen her look _ugly._

It was borderline insulting, actually, that Eve had been the one to judge the damage of Villanelle’s gaping and leaking wound. It was _her_ wound, it belonged on _her_ body. Yet Eve had squinted at it and...fixed it. Eve, who couldn’t hold a gun properly. Eve, who couldn’t push the knife in hard enough. Eve, who didn’t know the damage she did with her gaze and her touch and her mouth. Eve, who could barely admit what she wanted but still chased it, fueled by an apparently bottomless well of passion.  

In the rearview mirror, Villanelle watched Eve wade into the tulips. She brushed her fingertips against the tops of the bulbous flowers. Her hair smudged against the lightening sky like a brush stroke of black ink gracing a spacious canvas. Entranced, Villanelle craned her neck and twisted around to get a better view. Her right side immediately protested, shooting pain through her upper arm. 

Villanelle dipped her other hand into the duffel bag. She seized the first wig she felt, a silken brunette thing, and turned to face the dashboard again. The vanity mirror was depressingly small; Villanelle pulled it down delicately but it still squeaked on its loose hinges. Strands of hair fell dully across Villanelle’s face, slanted over her nose, curtained her eyes. She blew a huff of air to part her bangs. Caught a flash of Eve posing for yet another selfie and rolled her eyes.

Eve’s head snapped in Villanelle’s direction when she heard the horn honking. A sweep of wind threw curls across the lower portion of Eve’s face, briefly obscuring everything except her eyes. Even from this distance, Villanelle absorbed Eve’s searching gaze.

Now that the full force of it was finally directed at her, Villanelle felt the cold void within shrink to a manageable spot. This, she could handle. This, she could work with. She stretched herself over the driver’s side further to shout out the window. 

“We need to get going!”

“Oh, don’t be such a joykill!”   
  
“Will you stop already?” demanded Villanelle, just as Eve prepared to snap a bunch of blue tulips. “I think you have enough photos. Stop it. Come back here.”

Maybe she sounded more irritable than she meant to because when Eve got behind the wheel, her exuberance was replaced by sullenness. 

“That sounds like something Niko would tell me,” Eve said softly.

Villanelle instantly made the most disgusted face she possibly could. “Please don’t say that.” 

“Well fuck you, but it’s true.”

“I only like the first part of that sentence.”

“Look, if you really want to fuck me up, all you need to do is get one of those stupid disguise moustaches and tell me to _stop_ again.” 

Villanelle tilted her head. “Why would Niko ever tell you to stop?”

“Because I’m annoying, I’m too much and too soon, I’m a burden. I swear a lot and I get too angry and I drink more than my limit and I don’t comb my hair. I get too excited about things no one else would ever be excited about, and then Niko feels the need to tell me to _stop_ because really, sometimes, I just don’t know when to stop or how to stop. 

Oh and also, I don’t really _want_ to stop. I want to keep going, until-until I find what I want, until I _know_ everything, have everything. And Niko, he thinks that a person can only know so much and I’m not like that. I’m _not._ I never have been, but he _made_ me, because...because he’s dull, so he dulled me. 

And I don’t want to be like that anymore and I just-for fucking _fucks_ sake, you make me feel _alive_ because you’re the only person I’ve ever known that actually wants _more_ of me.”

Villanelle had closed her eyes while listening. She basked in everything Eve was willingly and also unwittingly gifting her: the pang of deep longing for what was unspoken between them, the neediness crawling into her low voice with every strained word, the way it all poured out of her to gradually become a black, abysmal, pool that Villanelle wholeheartedly drowned in. 

She wrung out every drop of despair and doubt from the curves of Eve’s inflection; she licked the bitter residue from the words that Eve lashed harshly with her own tongue; she nuzzled into Eve’s cadence most comfortably when it vibrated with a rage-soaked timbre; she caught the damp impressions that Eve’s fingers left on the steering wheel from the force of her grip; she moistened her lips with the watery shine that quivered ever so briefly in Eve’s mocha-coloured eyes; and she drenched herself in the way that Eve meant every single word she’d said. 

Villanelle was drunk on Eve’s essence. The purity of it was an elixir that Villanelle quenched her thirst with. Its flavour tasted like every secret and fantasy and murder and mistake and desire and wish that she’d ever coveted; an antidote she didn’t even know she wanted, a cure for what she didn’t even want to cure, a chance at redemption that she would never even take; but it was intoxicating just the same because Eve was flooding Villanelle’s senses, pumping through her like the gasoline that pumped through this car. 

She seriously contemplated asking Eve for _more,_  right here and right now, in this car. What Eve had just offered, and what she was offering forevermore, belonged to Villanelle. It was  _hers_ because she’d heard it and felt it and caused it and participated in it; let Eve wet her toes in that dark pool because Eve _belonged_ to her; and they could swim against the current or drown in their own wanting together, whichever was better; and all it would take would be one heated, lingering glance at Eve now, or a simple caress against her fingers. Then Villanelle would take her, claim her, possess her. 

Villanelle bit her lip to keep herself tethered to the moment. She wanted to mark Eve as surely as she’d seen Villanelle be marked on her right shoulder blade; she would even bleed and shake and writhe and be ugly again; would let Eve see for herself that she was only flesh and blood and bone; would gladly endure being impaled and marked by Eve again, if it meant that Eve’s hungry eyes endlessly looked into her own and she simultaneously offered and seized everything, _everything_ , that they both madly craved. 

To sit beside Eve and do nothing made Villanelle’s hands shake. She was fumbling to unbuckle her seat belt when Eve announced: 

“God, sometimes I want to kill you.”

And suddenly, Villanelle wasn’t bored anymore.

* * *

Pink streamers and clusters of golden balloons decorated the MI6 office. White ribbons dangled haphazardly from the top of the tall filing cabinets. A thin wooden table bearing half-devoured lemon cake and an assortment of  presents was pushed up against the burnished black brick wall. Congratulatory words were plastered on the windows and all over Jess’ desk, which was in turn occupied by celebratory greeting cards. 

“Got just a couple of weeks left before my bun comes out of the oven,” she announced proudly, for the fourth time that morning.  
  
Hugo patted her belly and conspiratorially whispered against it. “You oughta stay in there, if you know what’s good for you. It’s a weird world out here, with lots of weirdos in it.”  
  
“Speak for yourself,” said Jess dryly. She clinked her glass of water against Hugo’s half-empty glass of champagne. He reached around her to grab the bottle and emptied the rest of it into his mouth with a nonchalant shrug. 

Kenny skulked near the office doors. He’d placed his untouched glass on top of several precariously balanced cardboard storage boxes. Brushing a streamer aside, he opened the lid of a box simply marked “V” and picked through some files. He stiffened as Hugo sauntered over.

“Hey, hacker.”  
  
“That’s ‘the best codebreaker in British Intelligence’ to you.’”  
  
“Whatever. Your mummy must be so proud of you.”  
  
“Shut up.” Kenny felt himself redden right to the tips of his ears.  

“Do you really have to work during Jess’ maternity leave party?”

“Yes.” Kenny peered over his shoulder. “Some of us actually _do_ work around here. Not that you’d know what that is, since your mum and dad pay for everything.”

“Seriously?” Hugo dragged his fingers through his artfully arranged hair. “This shirt costs more than your entire month’s salary.”

“My computer costs more than your entire tuition at Oxford."

Hugo grinned. “I wouldn’t know, my mum and dad pay for everything.”  
  
Kenny turned back to the files. “Are you done? I’d like to keep working.”

“Actually, I just came over here to tell you that your mummy wants to talk to you. She’s on the phone in the other room.”

Kenny slammed the lid back on the box. Wordlessly, he passed Hugo and crossed over to the office space adjacent to the room he was in. The telephone was on a desk beside the largest unshuttered window. Kenny hesitated before picking up the endpiece.

“Hullo.”  
  
“How are you getting along with the party?”  
  
“It’s fine. Jess liked the cake you sent.”  
  
“Did you like it?”  
  
“I haven’t had any yet.”

“Ah. Well.” Kenny heard Carolyn exhale sharply. “Perhaps you should go have some, then.”

“That’s it?”  
  
“Goodness Kenny, I just wanted to check in on you.”

“So that’s all you wanted to talk to me about? Jess’ party?”

Kenny blinked through the silence that stretched between them.

“I suppose...while I have you on the line…” Carolyn cleared her throat. “You’ve been working late at the office these past few nights. Any progress with the sequence?”  
  
“Got a few coordinates, but no complete geo-location yet. The sooner Eve and Villanelle give me more USBs, the more I’ll have to work with. I still think it would have been easier to just use some sort of cloud service,” Kenny added irritably.

“I believe you told me that individual USBs are harder to hack than digitized intelligence gathered all in one place.”  
  
“I know.” 

Kenny and Carolyn sighed simultaneously. Silence fell between them again like a hammer. Carolyn broke it first. 

“And what about the other assignment I gave you, how’s that going?”

“Like finding a needle in a haystack.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Sorry. I’m trying my best, mum.”

“Alright. Enjoy the rest of the party.”  
  
Carolyn ended the call. Kenny padded back over to the office. Jess was gathering the cards from her desk and putting them in her purse. She glanced over longingly at the cake and then swiped some icing on her finger. 

“Where’s Hugo?” asked Kenny as he joined her at the table. 

“Went for a smoke. This is _delicious_ , by the way.” said Jess. She cut Kenny a piece of cake and then promptly cut herself another piece as well. 

“You know, I notice the way you are.”

“Oh. Sorry.” mumbled Kenny.

“Don’t be silly, you’ve got nothing to apologize for! I just meant that you seem aloof. Keep mostly to yourself. How come?”

Kenny swallowed a particularly hefty piece of cake. “I’m used to it.”

“You must get lonely, surely.” 

“Only when I’m not working.”

Jess’ smile was small and sad. “I’m really going to miss working with you.”

“It’s only for a while.”

“Yeah. But I know it’ll all be different when I come back.”

Kenny scraped the rest of the cake off his plate. “It’s hard to leave a place where you feel that you belong. Even harder when you know where you want to be but can’t get there fast enough. I dunno what to do when I feel like that.”

“You’ll get to where you’re going soon enough, believe me. In the meantime you’re right where you’re meant to be. You belong here, Kenny.”

“Thanks. Um. For encouraging me. Like, genuinely. Not because you have some sinister plan.”

“‘Course. You’re brilliant!”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

As soon as Jess left the office (not without giving him a warm, firm hug though), Kenny got back to work. He ignored Hugo’s prodding remarks and focused solely on his screen. Anything behind its parameters melted away, singed by the glow of either the display of the fragmented sequence or the flipping between various international landmarks. Kenny broadened his search, then grudgingly narrowed it when Hugo strolled past his screen and made a caustic, but sadly accurate, remark. 

It was well into the late afternoon before Kenny had worked through most of the unnecessary variables. Communicating with his computer was usually a breeze, especially if he was running an algorithm with a well-defined set of rules and processes. Problem solving was what Kenny had in common with his computer; its blinking lights, quirky sounds, and breathtaking speed gave it an understated sort of cleverness. Sometimes when he pushed it hard enough, Kenny swore that sparks of joy flew from the cables intertwined inside like veins feeding blood into a heart.

Aaron’s program had proven more taxing on Kenny’s computer than he’d originally anticipated. Its AI components were unreadable with his current hardware, but the search engine on steroids that was the hallmark of Aaron’s controlling, paranoid, and menacing engineering remained perfectly intact. Kenny wanted to resent its presence in the program’s backend, but he just couldn’t bring himself to because it was way too damn useful. 

Kenny’s finesse came in the form of navigating the program tactfully by nudging its limits and inserting instructions that didn’t insult the way it was naturally wired. Without being pushy, without being pompous, Kenny kept conversing with his computer in the most plain language possible. It eventually rewarded him with a curt answer. 

After double checking the name he’d come across in the files earlier, Kenny carefully typed it into the search engine. His screen flashed. Pages and pages of information were downloaded, enough to compile a dossier. Photographs and folders of anecdotes were dumped onto his desktop. Finally, his eyes narrowed at the most recent bit of information: longitude and latitude. 

The screen was suddenly too bright. Kenny couldn’t un-recognize the facts that blinked at him in various shades of satellite imaging. A rush of pride suffused him, followed by a plunge into the depths of anxiety. He’d come through, but then that meant Jess was right in her view that things would indeed be different. 

Kenny spent a good few minutes reflecting on this as he swiveled in his chair. Then he went to phone his mother. 

* * *

“You can’t just say you want to kill me and then not elaborate.” 

Eve squinted at the road through the haze of a full blown sunrise. The horizon was leaking gold. Orange smudges gradually coloured the edges of the sky. The yolk of the sun was steadily spreading, and somehow it was easier to look at it dead ahead than it was to look at Villanelle. 

She’d sunk her teeth into Eve’s heart, snarling and tearing. Eve quietly, exquisitely bled as she felt the heat of the sun scorching the plastic dashboard, the steering wheel, her forehead. Her mane of hair was like an extra layer of clothing and she badly needed to trim it. After tucking some wavy strands behind her ear, Eve finally found her voice again.

“I’ve thought about your death over and over again since I stabbed you. I thought about what I’d do if I lost you. If you-if you died.” Eve forced it out. “But death just isn’t something that happens to you. Does it?” 

Villanelle flashed a smile and cocked her head in anticipation. “So why do you want to kill me?”

“Because sometimes, you’re all that I can think about. You take up so much of my headspace that it gets hard to focus on anything else but you. So I want to kill you sometimes, only to stop my thoughts from constantly concentrating on you.” Eve licked her lips. “ But I know that’s not how it works, not really. I’d miss you so fucking much, I don’t actually know what I’d do without you, because nothing will ever be enough anymore unless it’s you, and-” Eve halted. “Oh god, I’m sorry, I’ve said too much!”

“No! Don’t stop. Keep going.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Please, Eve. Don’t stop.”

Eve looked out the window briefly to catch the red and yellow tulips get set on fire by the sunlight. It was strange, she thought, how their colour matched the intensity of her feelings. The breeze had stilled. The sky was completely clear. The fields on both sides of the car seemed to suspend the car on its own asphalt oasis, a private moment of calm that reverberated with a heady sense of fate. Eve sucked in a deep breath and continued feverishly.  

“I knew you before we ever met. I spent two years researching you, tracking you. Figuring out your style, your pattern. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from your kills. After a while, I even started looking forward to them because each one seemed to bring us closer. I didn’t know who you were, I didn’t know what you looked like, but I knew you. I _knew_ you.”

Eve’s cupped Villanelle’s’ cheek. “After I stabbed you, there was not a single day that went by where I didn't think of something you said, or a memory we shared, or how your arms felt, or the way we talked to each other, or how it felt to lay down beside you.

I found you in all of my small, quiet moments. Like when I was making coffee. Getting dressed. Before sleep. When I was driving somewhere. Even if you were gone, even if-if I killed you, I know I’m always going to find you. Because I want you to be there. To be _here_ , with me.”

Villanelle placed her hand on Eve’s cheek, mirroring her. “Do you want to kill me right now, Eve?’ 

“No.” Eve’s pulse quickened. She shifted closer to Villanelle. “I want to kiss you.”

The corner of Villanelle’s mouth quirked up. “Good choice. You can always kill me later…”

Eve leaned in and kissed Villanelle. At the touch of her lips, Villanelle blossomed. She pressed her own lips against Eve’s with more force, gripping the nape of her neck. Villanelle’s hair, set alight by the sun, unfurled down her neck. Her eyes were wide open, unguarded. _Accessible._  

She tugged Eve’s bottom lip with her teeth and Eve responded by pressing their lips together again. Her head swam with euphoria that spun her around and around. Villanelle’s lips were sweet wetness and quivering fire, evoking sensations from her that she’d never felt before. Oh, Eve had imagined this moment endlessly. Its softness and smoothness, its fragility and its bittersweet taste. But nothing compared to the reality of Villanelle, seeing her, feeling her, touching her, tasting her.

With a crescendo of breath, Eve closed her eyes. She didn’t know, didn’t really need to know, if Villanelle was still gazing at her with insatiable hunger and undeniable force, or if she’d closed her eyes too. All Eve wanted to ecstatically feel, _needed_ to feel with every heartbeat, was Villanelle’s lips fused to hers. Their mouths connected over and over again. Their smacking sounds echoed in the car alongside their sharp gasps, growing more pronounced as they slanted their heads in angles aligned with the rays of sunlight spilling over the seats.

Eve smelled Villanelle’s primeval scent, mixed with the honey fragrance of the tulips, more acutely when she leaned in as fully as the car’s console would allow. Villanelle’s insistent mouth parted Eve’s shaking lips, sending wild tremors along her nerves. Eve opened her mouth with a low moan. 

Villanelle’s nose brushed against Eve’s. She held Eve’s chin in place as she bestowed another open-mouth kiss. She took as much as she gave: breath, pulse, teeth, tongue, heat. The sensation was all-consuming, rocketing from the bottom of Eve’s spine to the base of her skull, pooling deep in her gut, and blinding her as surely as the sun’s glare. She felt a growing dampness between her legs.

Eve and Villanelle captured the sun in their mouths and transferred it between them. Warmth, as well as an electrifying current of power, surged through Eve. She clumsily placed wet kisses along both sides of Villanelle’s neck, let her hands slide upwards and palmed Villanelle’s breasts. Finally, an oh-so-delicate moan dripped from Villanelle. She let her head fall back momentarily, but the soft grip she maintained on Eve’s shoulders fell away. 

Villanelle suddenly ran her hands through Eve’s dark hair. She dove into her ensuing kisses with the same force that bullets ripped through flesh and bone; with the same strength that she sliced arteries open; with the same triumph and hysterical joy and infectious zeal with which she incinerated lives. Eventually, Villanelle broke the kiss and rasped: 

“I also think about killing you, Eve.” 

Eve drew back slightly to drink Villanelle in. She slid her hand down Villanelle’s spine and rested it at her hip.

 “Okay,” Eve whispered. “How?”

“How would you like to die?”

“Um…” Eve gave this some thought. Then she grinned. “You could love me to death.” 

Villanelle’s laugh chimed. “Oh Eve, that is so dreamy.”

“Speaking of dreams, I used to have this awful dream, around the time I didn’t know whether you survived me stabbing you in Paris.” Eve flicked her head, heaved more air into her aching lungs. Her lips felt bruised in the best way possible. “I dreamed that you’d asked me to run away with you to Alaska, of all places. Of course I said yes, but then I changed my mind for some reason. And-”

Eve’s eyes flicked to Villanelle’s. She looked flushed and for the first time that Eve had ever seen, quite delightfully distraught. 

“And?” urged Villanelle.

Eve licked her lips. The ghost of Villanelle's lips still lingered on them. “And you got pissed at me. Rightfully so, maybe. That’s wasn't clear. But it was definitely clear that you were pissed and then you...you shot me.”

“Oh.” Villanelle arched an eyebrow. “That’s a shitty dream. Very inaccurate.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” But the trace of humour from Eve’s tone had slipped. She mussed her hair. 

“What is wrong?” 

“I just…” Eve rubbed her nose. “I mean, I’d understand if you did it. If you killed me. I do fucked up things when I’m angry too.”

“Well, it’s not like it hasn’t crossed my mind. And as I just said, I do want to kill you.”

“Why?”

Villanelle shifted in the seat. “Because you are the one.” 

“How charming.”

“You are. You are the one.” Villanelle insisted. “Listen to me Eve.”

Eve drew a breath to protest but Villanelle sealed it with another kiss. She traced Eve’s jaw when she pulled back. Her husky voice resonated right down to Eve’s core.  

“You are the one. Because when it comes to you, I just...I can’t do the things that I usually do, or do them the way that I am used to doing. So I want to kill you because you are like a limit, sometimes, and I was never into self denial. 

I am finding that I can’t do my job as...efficiently. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I cannot turn a corner in my mind without coming across you. And I can’t think about just myself anymore. That is inconvenient Eve, so I want to kill you also because I want to get myself back, in a way. But killing you would be like killing myself, in another way, and I don’t like that. Obviously, I wouldn’t do that to myself. Or to you,” Villanelle added quickly. “But my point is, I don’t want to go back to the way I did things before. Because it’s better knowing that someone like you exists. It's better knowing that you make me feel so much more-just, _more_. Of everything. It is fulfilling.”

Villanelle looked deep into Eve’s inflamed eyes. “There's feeling complete, and you make me feel _whole_ . Not only that, but you make me radiate. There’s feeling alive, exhilarating and glorious and arduous feeling alive. And then there's how you take me way beyond that. Without even trying. This is how I exist now, better. Because of you, Eve. _With_ you. 

And I can’t kill you because I can’t live the rest of my life knowing that you exist, and that I exist, and that we ‘d have to exist apart.”

Silenced breezed into the car. Eve gripped the steering wheel with one hand and her other arm draped against the back of Villanelle’s seat.   
  
“Wow,” Eve said finally. “I’m glad we had this little talk.”

“I’m glad we can talk about anything. You know, romance, politics, work, murderous tendencies.”

Eve matched Villanelle’s wicked grin. Then she caught sight of an approaching car in the rearview mirror. She didn’t realize it was a police patrol car until it drew closer. 

“Shit, police!”

Villanelle glanced behind them. “Oh.” She patted Eve’s shoulder. “Don’t speed. It will only be more suspicious. Just smile and look innocent.”

Eve angrily killed the engine. The police car pulled up alongside them. Eve waited for the motor to be switched off. Waited for the familiar sound of a car door slamming shut. As she waited, she played out responses to the inevitable incoming line of questioning.

_No officer, there’s nothing to see here! You just missed my makeout session with a Russian assassin almost twenty years younger than me._

_Yes officer, I’m fine! I’m just trying to calm my screaming nerves and tingly lady-parts, which apparently only get aroused these days from the touch of a serial-killer turned assassin for an international murder syndicate. Guilty as charged haha!_

_No officer, I am not insane! I’ve just never felt this good since I can’t remember when, and I feel so alive that I’m not going to ever let you arrest me and lock me away for the rest of my life, even if I’m in love with a psychopathic murderer._

The police car’s motor was running. Pale smoke lifted from the tailpipe. Eve was beginning to smell the exhaust, and to feel faintly nauseated. Her heart got stuck in her throat when the officer stepped out.

He looked to be in his early twenties. His black uniform with a bold yellow stripe across the torso fit him snugly. He had pleasant, clean features with a tanned sheen and perceptive, blue eyes. Eve pasted on the most innocent smile she could muster when he leaned down to window level. 

“Hello. How are you two ladies?”

“Fine.”

“How are you?” asked Villanelle. Eve glanced at her, all fireworks and bubbliness. She was effortlessly casually, breezy, entrancing. Her voice was a mix of several accents thrown together into an unidentifiable mush. Eve silently praised her. 

“Not too good, I am afraid. Where are you going?”  
  
“Just passing through these lovely fields!” Villanelle turned up the wattage on her smile so high that it seemed to be able to power several entire cities across Europe. 

“You should turn back. The border ahead is closed.”

“Why?” Eve asked.

“It is in a bad way over in Sweden right now, so Denmark has also closed all its shared borders as a precaution.”

“That’s horrible!” Villanelle said. “I feel so worried now,” she added, flapping her hands in a manner that suggested she felt anything but that particular emotion.  
  
“What happened?” came Eve’s quick question. 

“I am not quite sure. Some important people got shot yesterday in Parliament.” The officer sighed. “I am sorry that your trip has to be postponed.”

Villanelle bit her lip and fluttered her eyelashes. “Do we really have to turn back?”

“Yeah.”

“But surely, you are a strong officer. Right?”  
  
The officer shrugged. Eve thought that he blushed a bit.

“And you are brave and respected, too. Right?”  
  
“Sure.” 

“I bet you’re the best officer in your unit,” added Eve, adding some extra shine to her smile.

“See, we are safe with you! Could you please escort us across the border?”

The officer looked surprised. “I am not sure-”  
  
“Please!” insisted Villanelle. “We planned this vacation for months, we don’t have a lot of money to do it again, we can’t just turn back now!”

She was marvelous, thought Eve. The way she instilled distress into her voice at a moments notice, the warble in her tone, her pliant movements...Eve could really, honestly kiss her all over again for being so marvelously devious.

“I guess...I could escort you.” The officer acquiesced. “They won’t ask questions if they see a uniform,” he added proudly.  

“Oh, you’ve made me so happy I need to hug you!” announced Villanelle. Before Eve could process things, Villanelle bolted out of the car. She approached the officer with outstretched arms. Except instead of hugging him, she weaved aside from his hug and wrapped her forearm around his neck in a choke hold.

By the time Eve unbuckled herself and got out, Villanelle had slammed his head against the hood of the patrol car with enough force to temporarily knock him out. 

“Why are you doing this?” Eve’s voice cracked in the abruptly stifling air.  
  
Villanelle looked at Eve like the question was readily apparent. “He interrupted us.”  
  
“Wait! Leave him alone!”  
  
Villanelle disregarded Eve’s instructions and stripped his entire uniform off instead. She handcuffed his hands. Threw open the trunk of the car, found the officer’s kit in the back, dragged it out. She sprang it open to pull out an extra uniform. 

“Put this on.”

“What? No!”

“Do as I say, Eve. Put it on.”

Villanelle quickly removed her own clothes and made a great show of tucking the overly-large uniform in to flatter her curves. When she put the officer’s cap on at last, Eve was still struggling to pull her pants up. The bullet proof vest was also proving to be a challenge.

“I hate bullet proof vests,” she muttered.

“Get me a wig from the duffel bag,” snapped Villanelle. 

Numbly, Eve obeyed and returned with a ginger coloured one that went well past shoulder length. Villanelle groaned. “Could you get the brunette one instead?”

Eve hurled the wig at Villanelle. She shrugged on the top of the uniform but left the cap off. She tossed it in the backseat of the car and was halfway inside when the car croaked with the weight of Villanelle heaving the officer’s body into the trunk.

“Villanelle, what are you doing?”

As she rounded to the trunk, Villanelle was rummaging through the officer’s kit. He regained consciousness with a groan that quickly turned into very verbal, very loud protests.

Villanelle shushed him by snatching his gun. “We’ll just borrow this, thank you.” She holstered it and continued going through the rest of his kit. “Oooh,” she exclaimed when she pulled out a serrated utility blade.  
  
Eve’s blood ran cold when Villanelle pulled the officer’s boxers off.

“Oh my god, what the fuck Villanelle?”

She looked at Eve and tilted her head. “What is it, Eve?”  
  
“D-do you have to do that?”  
  
Villanelle blinked. “Well no, I don’t _have_ to,” she answered after a moment. “I just really, really want to.”  
  
“But why?”  
  
Uh…” Villanelle waved the knife around in any general direction. “I have a thing against authority figures?” 

Silence.

“I am a feminist?” Villanelle tried again.

Silence.

Villanelle smiled. She put her fingers in the uniform’s breast pocket and took out the item within. “Would you let me do it if he had a silver USB?” she asked sweetly. 

“No.” Eve’s voice wavered. Slightly. “Think Villanelle. You don’t have to be violent. We could take him hostage instead,” Eve offered.

“Why would we do that?”  
  
“Because we haven’t done something like that yet,” was Eve’s prompt answer. 

“Why are you worried about him hmm?” Villanelle shook her head in disbelief. “He is just a random person.”

“He’s a police officer who helped us.”

“Oh, I get it. You are moralizing.”

“What?”

“You are trying to do the ‘right’ thing, aren’t you?” Villanelle snorted.  “You think you are too good for me, Eve?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Because you seem to think that somehow your shit stinks less than mine.”

“Villanelle, stop it. Just…stop it.”

“No.”

“Fuck!” Eve threw her hands up. “Fuck, can’t you think about the consequences of your actions for one second? How this is going to affect us? Fuck!”

Villanelle’s tongue flicked out to lick along the edge of the blade.

Eve’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I am thinking.”

“Think harder.”

“Okay. I think that you do not understand how this works.”

“What?” Eve closed the distance between them. Her chest heaved. Her head pounded. Her eyes roved all over Villanelle (and lingered at her lips, which were still reddened, and swollen, and so warm, and so soft, and-)

“Well usually, when I cut a man’s penis off, there is lots of screaming and blood and-”

“Shut up! Stop it! Shut up!” 

“Why, does it disturb you?”  
  
“Villanelle,” snarled Eve, “please don’t do this. I am asking you. _Begging_ you. Please, stop.”

“What is the problem?”  
  
“The problem is that if you do this, there will be awful consequences.”  
  
“You already agreed that we should escalate.”  
  
“That’s not the point! That’s-fuck, that’s the problem! You’re doing this with no point! He didn’t do anything wrong! God, he wanted to help us! There’s no point, so don’t do it!”

“Point?” Villanelle pressed her thumb to the point of the knife. “There doesn’t always have to be a point.”

“Y-yes there does.” Eve said hoarsely. Her throat hurt. Her head pounded harder. She wanted to rewind, so that she was kissing Villanelle, and Villanelle was kissing her, back in their car that smelled of tulips and affection. 

Villanelle turned to the trunk. The man screamed and thrashed and strained against the handcuffs. 

“Villanelle, this will escalate things out of control, and then we’ll be _fucked_ , and god that can’t happen, we just-we just _started_ , and fuck there’s no time, please, we need more _time_ to be together and just-fuck, please Villanelle. Stop.” Eve reached for Villanelle, her fingers brushing against the collar of the uniform.  “Please, don’t do this. Please.”

Villanelle put her hands on her hips. “You do not get to tell me what to do, Eve. You tortured a man.”

Eve almost buckled to her knees. Her voice wheezed out of her. “Don’t, Villanelle.”

Pain shone in Eve’s eyes as she watched Villanelle through an eviscerating haze. Villanelle held Eve’s gaze for a long moment. The air was loud. The sky shuddered. The sun was like an eye that couldn’t close because its eyelid had been removed.

Then with a flick of her wrist, Villanelle brought the knife in between the officer’s legs. His scream pulled the sky down, brought it down shattering over all their heads. Villanelle sawed. His next scream was much louder, but choked off abruptly. Blood poured between his legs. There was a wet, crunching tearing sound.

Villanelle tossed her hair off her ears as if she expected to hear Eve scream the way Anna had screamed when she’d come home to see her husband bled out on their bed with a gaping cleft between his legs.

But Eve was silent. Through it all, she couldn’t move.

With a blank expression, Villanelle tossed the knife and then the officer’s penis. Both landed with a thud somewhere in the tulip fields. 

Eve twisted to her knees. Dry heaves wracked her body. She clutched her stomach, choking, retching. But nothing came out. She wiped her mouth anyway. She couldn’t bear to look at the scraping sound of Villanelle dragging the officer’s body off, or the rustling of the flowers. Their height and their floral scent would mask his rotting body for a long time, Eve thought distantly. She tried to repress the very next thought, _brilliant,_ with no success.

“Are you coming?”  
  
Eve struggled to her feet. Leaned against the car’s closed trunk for support as she tried to regain her balance. Her body was numb. Her mind was as blank and empty as Villanelle looked. She disappeared into the driver’s seat with a flash of neatly tied ponytail. 

After a moment, Eve followed her. 

The sun beat down. The tulips swayed. And kept on swaying, long after the car drove away.


	7. Stockholm Syndrome

The police car sped towards the Swedish border.

Eve was getting a steady stream of anxiety from watching Villanelle drive with just one hand, her  uninjured left one, while her right rested lightly on her thigh. She’d charmed them over the Danish border with nothing but a pair of gleaming aviators and a flash of the suppleness underneath her uniform. The aviators still disguised half her face, functioning like unsettling reflectors of the world, constantly mirroring but never offering insight.

The second pair of aviators rested on the dashboard. Eve had put them there in favour of fidgeting with the iPad. The latest USB sequence just finished uploading, but Eve still clung to the cool, smooth surface of the device. She checked her email inbox yet again, hoping that the final part of her coding course had arrived so that she could actually have some sort of viable excuse to keep staring at the screen. But her inbox was resolutely empty.

Somehow, Eve managed to stuff her hair into a bun that fit underneath the police cap. She stole another glance at Villanelle, who looked impossibly dashing in the uniform. The collar remained unbuttoned low enough to expose her décolletage. The folds and ruffles stuck to Villanelle like a second skin. And damn it, she looked like she had approximately twenty years worth of experience with the force, got Nancy the secretary to bring her coffee and doughnuts in the morning, and personally worked out with the chief every other day of the week. 

Looking at Villanelle like this, it was easy to forget what she had done. Everything that she had done.

Which was why Eve preferred to look all over the car instead: at the silent two way radio and mobile data terminal, at the automated external defibrillator in the back, at the flares and barrier tapes grouped together near her handbag and the duffel disguise bag, at the first aid kits, and at the ammunition packs stuffed in the glove compartment. 

From the corner of her eye, Eve could tell that Villanelle was watching her pay far more attention to the iPad. So Eve kept her eyes glued on it. 

“We should start a travel blog. Or a vlog, actually. I love being on camera.” 

These were the first words that Villanelle had spoken directly to Eve during the rusty day and a half they’d spent driving across Denmark. Most of it was comprised of vividly coloured dock towns, historic monuments, sprawling fields with cottages that had faintly smoking chimneys to stave off the rain, and stout wooden windmills planted in the middle of yellow marigolds. 

Eve furiously swiped through photos of the tulip fields. She held up the last one she’d taken, a cluster of flowers gathered in the lower right corner of the shot, with a windmill framing the space on the left. 

“Look, not pictured: decomposing body of castrated man!” 

“Still not over that, I see.”

“It’s funny how you told me that you didn’t want to go back to doing things the way you’ve done them before, but then you go right ahead and continue your destructive pattern.”

“No, this is definitely different,” retorted Villanelle. “I have never had to justify myself to anyone before.”

“Get used to it, because I want to understand.”

“I simply cannot have this conversation with you as an equal, because until you kill someone for yourself Eve, you will never understand.”

Eve dropped the iPad onto her lap. The wet Danish countryside flowed by. Rain fell across her window, blurring the edges. Confining her to a dreary, surreal space where the barrier between the world outside the car and the invigorating one inside mattered less with each passing second. 

“What you did to the officer was senseless,” said Eve stonily. “Just like when you killed Bill. Completely senseless.”

“So are you saying that if there had been a point to my actions, they would have been easier for you to approve?”  
  
“I...I’m  _saying_ that it would be easier for me to _understand_.”

Villanelle’s teeth dug into her bottom lip. Her left hand gripped and ungripped the steering wheel. 

“You liked me more when I had a _point,_  didn’t you? When I was assassinating for The Twelve?” 

The asphalt road was very slick, Eve noticed. It was also cracked and bumpy. Patches of gravel covered stretches of it. At the speed they were going, the wheels could skid easily. Still, the rain kept falling. Some of the fields were already drowned. 

Eve glanced at Villanelle. All she could see was her own reflection, doubled. 

“It made you easier to find.”

“I do not understand you, Eve. You have seen my prison record. You know what I have done. Mostly.” Villanelle pushed her aviators back up to the bridge of her nose. “You know what I am doing. You are okay with looking at gory photos of my kills for two years, but you can’t handle a live demonstration? Am I too real for you or something?”

“You have a serious problem.”  
  
“No. _You_ have the serious problem. With what I do. With-with me.” Villanelle’s jaw clenched. “I don’t have that problem. I am okay with what I do.” 

“Well I’m not. Okay? I am not. Fuck.” 

“I know. I know that you are not okay, Eve,” added Villanelle. “You have a serious problem.”

“Fuck you.”

“If Anna hadn’t fucked me, I probably would have graduated high school and then gone on to university.”

It felt like Eve’s lungs had collapsed. It was too hot in the car, way too hot. Eve opened her window for a second, but closed it right after rain pattered the left side of her face.  
  
“Do you think you are problem free? Do you, Eve? Answer me!”

“No.”

“No,” Villanelle emphasized. “That’s right.”  
  
Eve barked out a strained, joyless laugh. “I really think your problems are worse than mine.”  
  
“I do not want to fight with you Eve.” Villanelle’s voice took on a sing-song tone. “We should be able to have difficult, intense conversations without getting overly emotional and violent and shit. But…” Villanelle took off her aviators and put them in the cup holder. When she spoke again, her voice was the snake that wrapped around Eve’s heart. Tightening, squeezing, sinking its poisonous fangs in to circulate paralyzing toxin.

“You are a woman in her forties who is okay with getting into a romantic relationship with me, a woman in my twenties. Nevermind what it is that I _do,_  what we’ve _both_ done. You are okay with wanting to be with me, apparently, because you are in a position to be an important and dominating figure in my life. Eve, you are a control freak. No, you _are_ ,” insisted Villanelle, jabbing her finger at Eve as soon as she opened her mouth.

“With Anna, I was barely a teenager. She had all the power. It was her responsibility to put distance between us, to say no, if there was a need for it. I was less experienced, less knowledgeable, more easily impressed and could not navigate that sort of difficult relationship. I was _young._ But I am not a child anymore, Eve-”

“Then stop acting like one!”  
  
“And I can make my own decisions,” Villanelle continued loudly. “I am an adult now. So are you. We can make our own choices. And whether you feel things for me, or if you don’t, or whatever the fuck is going on inside of you for me, it doesn’t change the fact that we have a responsibility to respect each other’s choices.”

Eve freed her hair and threaded her unfeeling fingers through it. “You want me to _respect_ your _choice_ to _castrate a man?”_ _  
_  
“Not exactly.” Villanelle wrenched the steering wheel, rumbling the car over the roughest section of asphalt yet. “I want you to respect the power behind it, my power to do what I want. Regardless of how you _feel_ about it. But maybe, you are too much of a control freak for that. Maybe you want me to be like I was with Anna, because you want to keep your power and control as an older woman, and you are considering me like I cannot do what I want.”

Eve turned her head away to look out the window again. She couldn’t stop Villanelle’s voice from barreling into her.  

“You knew me before you ever met me, right Eve? So what is your problem, really? Why are you here, with me, if you have such a problem?”

There was only stillness, Eve’s breathing. She put a hand to her forehead. Her voice had an eerie lightness to it. 

“Because it feels good. You...you make me feel good.”

“You make me feel good, too.” Villanelle exhaled in relief. “So there should be no problem. I still do not understand your problem with...my problems.”

Eve plucked her question from the back of her constricted throat. “Does hurting people make you feel powerful?”

“Oh, yes. And you?”

“Yes.” 

The answer bled out of Eve. She clenched her hands to try to stop them from shaking. A great weight toppled out of her chest. 

“Wow. Okay. Uh, is that your problem?” Villanelle asked incredulously. “Because it shouldn’t be. Having power is a good thing.”

“God, why don’t you try having some empathy, Villanelle?” 

Villanelle’s expression scrunched up. “Oh. This is an empathy problem…”

Eve rounded on her. “How would you like it if I cut your tits off?"

Villanelle glanced down. “Okay Eve, I was hoping you were kinky, but-”

“Just listen!” 

“Fiiiine.”

“It would hurt you a lot, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you wouldn’t like it, right?”

“Definitely not.”

“Then you can understand that cutting a man’s dick off would be like getting your tits cut off. Comparatively. You do get that, right?”

“I get what you’re trying to do, Eve. You want me to understand the situation. But I already do. I can understand it in my mind.”

“I’m trying to get you to understand the situation in your heart. To have a little empathy in _there._ ” Eve prodded her chest. 

“I already told you that I feel things when I’m with you.” Villanelle wet her lips. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I-I know you said that. That’s why it hurt when you didn’t listen to me because...you didn’t care about how I felt or what I thought.”

“Ohhhh.” Villanelle shot Eve a quick, wolfish grin. “So this isn’t really about the officer at all. This is all about how _you_ felt about what I did.”

“No!”

Villanelle’s grin broadened. “It totally is.”

“Stop…”

“‘Oh, don’t Villanelle! Leave the officer alone, Villanelle. Stop it! He’s just an innocent, helpful man, Villanelle. Stop Villanelle, you’re going to dooooom us! Listen to me, Villanelle, listen to me!’” mocked Villanelle. “God, why don’t you try having some _empathy_ Eve? Isn’t that how this works?”

“I don’t know,” Eve said hollowly. “You tell me.”

“Okay, I will.” 

Eve gripped the door handle as the car hurtled over a bump with an awful scuffing sound. Gravel ping-ponged underneath, bounced off the doors and scratched the windshield. The wind picked up.

“I honestly do not care about your feelings, Eve. It is not in my psychology. You should know that already.”

“Yeah thanks, I already do know that you obviously don’t care about me. Thanks for shoving it in my face, you asshole.” 

“I thought you were smart, Eve.” Villanelle loosened her one-handled grip on the wheel as the car sped up. “Hopefully by now, you can see that I _do_ care about you. Maybe that’s asking for you to see too much though, I am not sure.”

“You’re going too fast,” Eve choked out.

“I can care about you. And I do,” continued Villanelle, as nonchalantly as if they were discussing the rainy weather.

The car whipped past a decaying barn so fast that it tore chunks of asphalt from the road.

“Villanelle. Slow down. Please.”

“Usually this happens only because you are doing things for me and giving me your emotions. You know, like transference. And it feels good. Really good. I like the feeling that you give me. A lot. So I will do all those things that caring people do: I will ask you about your day. I will cook for you. I will do the laundry. I will buy groceries. I will take you on trips. I will kiss you,” she added with a twinkle in her eye. 

Eve carefully kept herself still while the car shuddered and Villanelle peered at her as if Eve was a coiling, wispy column of smoke that could disappear if Villanelle breathed her words out too hard.

“I will do all these things, even if I don’t care about your feelings, because you are very interesting and you do not irritate me the way everyone else does. Usually.” 

Villanelle pressed down harder on the acceleration pedal.

“Except today, you are being extremely irritating. I can tell that you are angry, and maybe you are also...” 

Villanelle fumbled for the word and then swore when she quickly swerved to avoid slamming into a miserably wet black cat that was crossing the road.

“...disgusted? Yes, maybe you are turned off by me or whatever, but you cannot ever control me or what I do. Which is why, Eve, my best resolution is for you to accept me.”

The car raced along a painfully straight stretch of road. Eve closed her eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink and almost bit through her tongue when Villanelle stated:

“Or you can go home.”

Eve saw that there was something yielding in Villanelle’s face, something easily wounded. Villanelle lifted her chin, sharpening the line of her jaw. Her eyes were bright and narrow. She looked at Eve with the sad, fierce look of someone who was seeing something that she knew she should not have.

“I mean, you can go home whenever you want,” Villanelle said. “No one is stopping you.”

Up ahead, the road split into two different directions. The signage indicated that one turn would take them towards more urban locales, while the other route buried itself in squelching mud. If the car continued plowing straight ahead, it would shatter through a thick wooden fence and plunge into a deep pool of water.

“And then you’ll be home,” Villanelle said. “But now that you’ve had a taste, gotten a raw appetite, you probably won’t.”

No, Eve thought, she probably wouldn’t. It was hard to turn down an exciting life. 

“Slow down!”

“I know you want me to care all the time about how you feel Eve, but I can’t. Caring about myself is about all I have bandwidth for and that is enough for me.”

“Villanelle, slow down!”

“But lately, we have a good thing going. Please do not ruin it by getting caught up in my choice of professional methods. Okay?”

“Okay, okay, fuck!” Eve pointed to the splitting road. “Stop! We’re going to crash!”

Eve couldn’t stop shaking. She was cold. Her stomach roiled. 

“So you can either accept who I am and what I do, completely. Or you can leave. You can go home. Do you accept me, Eve?”

The fence was closer.

“Oh god, yes! Fuck, just-stop the car!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

The fence was closer still, its wooden beams large and sturdy. 

“Are you going to abandon me?”

“Fuck! Oh fuck! No, I’m not! No! No, Villanelle, no!” 

“You do not want to leave me?”

“No!”

The fence filled most of the windshield. The car went on and on, roaring.

“Promise?”

“Promise! Promise!”

“Eve, you are such a liar.”

“No! I-I don’t want to leave! I don’t! I won’t! I can’t leave you, Villanelle-just, fuck, fuck! Please, stop the car!”

The tires squealed. The brakes screeched. Smoke filled the air. The car skidded along the asphalt. Rain flung itself against the windshield. 

Screaming. Adrenaline. A vacuum of sound and motion. 

Villanelle’s voice was cacophonic in the aftermath. 

“Why will you not leave?” 

“Because I’ll die!”

It was just a sliver of movement, the barest flick of Villanelle’s head, as if she expected Eve to give another reason, as if she hoped for a more emotional admission. Quietly, she asked:

“Is fear of death the only thing keeping you here with me?”

Eve shook her head. Villanelle nodded. They lapsed into cramped silence. 

The car had come so close to the wooden fence that Eve could see the nails and metal holding it together, the rings of tree-ages that were amputated to forcibly construct it into a fence. Eve felt like her legs were cut off, like her hands had been packed in ice for days. Her mind replayed the film reel of their ride as the car peeled away from the vicinity of the wooden fence and towards civilization. Villanelle _looked_ okay, barely shaken and totally composed. Eve wanted to slap her. 

The film reel kept snagging on what Eve had confessed. It soon ran itself ragged, unwinding and spilling onto the killing floor. The projection of Eve’s life kept playing on the wall of her mind, but it was unrecognizable, unfamiliar, as if Eve had walked into the wrong theater or started watching the wrong movie and couldn’t find the remote to switch it off. 

The car was moving again. There was no threatening speed. Everything would be okay. Slowly, Eve constructed this idea, reached for it and held on to it. All this worry and fright was simply what Villanelle wanted. It was a distraction from their mission, a distraction from their _union_ , and really, Eve’s panic had been absurd, something she would eventually remember with embarrassment.

When they pulled over for the night, and Villanelle was well and truly snoring in her sleep, Eve was still remembering. The darkness hid her embarrassment well, the flush of it hot on her neck, the twitching of it sharp in her fingers. Eve switched on the iPad. She composed an email to Carolyn with the subject line “The Tulip Field Incident.” 

_Hi Carolyn,_

_As per our usual check-in emails, I am writing to inform you that the fourth USB has been uploaded for Kenny to sequence._

_However, I’ve got to also explain the tulip field incident to you. Villanelle and I were apprehended by a police officer in Lille, Netherlands, where we obtained this latest USB. He explained that there had been a shooting in the Swedish parliament and that we should turn back._

_Then he offered to escort us across the border. Everything was fine until Villanelle got out of the car and...I’ll just borrow Elena’s words here: Villanelle “chopped his knob off.”_

_I tried to stop her. But she wouldn’t listen. The situation got out of control. Which is why I’m reporting it to you._

_I would greatly appreciate any guidance that you can give me. Preferably as soon as possible. I’m at a loss here._

_Thanks for your consideration._

_Eve_

The iPad’s glow subsided. Eve leaned her head back, closed her eyes. It wasn’t the terror of her near-death experience that played out in her mind; it was the elation of kissing Villanelle. Darkness knocked on the window, pried at the seams between the window and the door handle, danced behind her stinging eyelids. Eve fell asleep to memories of being kissed over and over again, as well as the sensation of welcoming the corruptive darkness with open arms.

* * *

The Swedish border patrol were not impressed when Villanelle rolled up to one of the security booths with the radio blasting ABBA. 

An officer frantically waved his hand in a downward motion, indicating that she should turn the volume down. Villanelle nodded sagely and turned it up instead. He stomped outside. Eve switched the radio off with a pointed look at Villanelle. 

“Hello, hello. What is your business in Sweden?” asked the officer.

“We are the Dutch police.”

“Yes, I can see that.” The officer squinted at her and Eve. “Why are you so far away from your jurisdiction?”

“We’re uh, investigating the shooting in your Parliament,” replied Eve.

“Very tragic,” Villanelle added. 

The officer waved them towards the squat, grey box of a building. “Pull over, please.” 

Villanelle’s heart thwacked. Heat ﬂowed up from her stomach and burned her face. She stopped the car in front of the entrance, turned the engine off, and inhaled the building tension. 

“They’re going to see the bloodstains,” hissed Eve, as the officer called a few more of his colleagues over and rapped his knuckles on the trunk. 

“Yeah.”

Villanelle got out of the car, followed swiftly by Eve, once she’d gathered their bags. They hurried inside the grey building while the officer yelled after them. Inside, Villanelle swept past cluttered desks and computer screens, stacks of papers and personal belongings, pairs of officers chatting near a vending machine, and interns hurriedly carrying messy file folders. Heads turned as the officer kept yelling, but Villanelle ducked them into the women’s locker room.

She was halfway out of the Dutch police uniform by the time she spotted a pair of neatly folded navy blue Swedish uniforms. Wordlessly, Eve joined her in switching clothing. She glanced at the door periodically, as the officer’s bellows echoed in the hallway outside. Villanelle adjusted the angle of her beret and saluted Eve with a grin.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” said Eve.

“I am. Very much.” 

Eve pointed behind her, at the television mounted on the wall. Her expression was grim. “It’s a good thing you enjoy being on camera, too.”

Villanelle turned to look at shaky cell phone footage of her and Eve in the Brussels airport. This was followed by clearer CCTV captures of their faces, with sensationalist headlines splashed across the screen. 

“Wow. We’re famous!” 

Instead of responding, Eve pressed her ear to the locker room door. Quiet reigned. She carefully squeaked it open and darted out when it was readily apparent that the officer was nowhere in sight. Eve led them down another hallway that emerged to a parking lot. Swedish police cruisers gleamed in the noon sun, arranged in unvarying rows. Eve approached a woman wearing a neon-coloured vest and returned to Villanelle a few moments later with car keys. 

They eased out of the parking lot without a stir. Eve kept glancing behind them. She missed the towering stone cliffs, crowned with trees, that framed long parts of the expressway. It cut through morose rocky hills and plowed past grassy fields that were interrupted by rivulets. Concrete overpasses, dizzying turnpikes, and steel bridges distinguished the expressway from the verdant blanket of nature that struggled to regain its grip amidst pollution and construction. 

An endless stream of trucks and cars zoomed past their newly acquired patrol car (Villanelle even caught some people glancing at them in alarm and contemplated turning on the sirens). Eve stared out the passenger window. She seemed lost in thought, or she was ignoring Villanelle, and the longer that Villanelle indulged that line of thinking, the more that she wanted to ram into the vehicles that were parallel to them. 

The expressway took Eve and Villanelle right to the outskirts of Stockholm, where train tracks ran alongside skyscrapers, flowing glass and steel abstract sculptures, and old buildings with ivy crawling up the walls. Villanelle’s first instinct was to check them into the nearest hotel, but Eve’s earlier remark about investigating Swedish Parliament urged her to park the patrol car across the street from that very same building. 

It was entirely round and occupied its own concrete island, surrounded by deep water that shimmered in the sunlight. Glass windows adorned the top of the building. Heavy wooden doors circled around the bottom. Eve and Villanelle pushed past the group of reporters, INTERPOL officers, and security guards crowding the foyer and found themselves inside the Parliament chamber. There were two tiers. All the seats and desks were structured like an amphitheater, angled to face the front of the room.

Villanelle noticed the chalk outlines as she drew nearer. Eve picked her way past shards of glass that littered the raised platform where the most ornately carved seats were, then turned around to study the shattered central window behind the balcony. Frowning, Villanelle crouched and, with a slender finger, traced the outline of a woman. She had been hit from the back and sprawled face-down; yet the wood of the platform had not darkened where her pool of blood was supposed to have spilled. The same was true for the rest of the outlined figures, spread around the podium and ornate seats in a tangle of flailing limbs. 

“There is not a lot of blood,” Villanelle noted, making sure that Eve clearly heard the disappointment in her voice. 

“There’s a good reason for that.” Eve busied her hands with taming her unkempt hair and spoke excitedly. “I just talked to a woman that was part of the evidence gathering crew, and she said that the sniper rounds they recovered were blunt shaped, full metal jackets.”

“I can’t remember the last time I used a sniper rifle. I prefer being up close and personal,” purred Villanelle.

“These types of bullets have soft, metal cores," Eve explained. "So when the sniper aims for center mass, the bullet hits the target and mushrooms out, but stops inside.” Eve gestured to the chalk outlines. “The bodies would have all had bullets lodged in their chests, but little to no bloodspill. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Do you think that The Twelve had something to do with this?”

“Probably.”

“Maybe they wanted to send a message.”

“To us? Maybe. I’m not sure. They couldn’t have known we would come here, surely?”

Villanelle’s scalp prickled. “I wouldn’t underestimate them. They may have been hoping we’d show up to something like this just to...investigate.”

“Which means we’ve got to get out of here.”

A few hours later, after they’d purchased new clothes and promptly put them on before even the tags had been properly cut off, Eve and Villanelle ate sandwiches in front of a marble fountain. Eve wore a black ruffled high neck blouse, paired with black pants that had golden rivets sewn along the side seam; Villanelle chose a taupe coloured windowpane check suit (which was offset by a white blouse with light pink pinstripes underneath) and slim matching trousers.

Her hair was gathered in a tight top-knot, mirroring Eve’s choice to keep her own hair in a restrictive bun. Although it exposed the soft flow of her neck this way, Villanelle still craved to see it spill over her shoulders, to grab fistfuls of it, to bury her nose deeply in it and inhale Eve’s potent scent. The only touch Villanelle allowed herself was to wipe mayonnaise off the corner of Eve’s mouth with her thumb, which she then lightly sucked on for good measure. 

Eve gulped down the last of her sandwich and dusted her hands, as if ridding herself of a troublesome thought at the same time. She inhaled the freshness of the fountain, tilted her head up to the sun. Villanelle watched her, enraptured. The remnants of Villanelle’s sandwich nestled limply between her fingers, all but forgotten at the sight Eve; there was no combination of flavours, no mixture of spices or drizzle of sweetness that could ever compare to the taste of Eve’s kisses. True, her lips were as intoxicating and saccharine as the finest ice wine, and her touch evoked syrupy feelings that slopped all over Villanelle’s heart. But Eve’s flavour was wholly delicate, inviting, and unfiltered, something unique that Villanelle hadn’t tasted in all her years of kissing women. 

Watching Eve was a banquet too, one that Villanelle found herself constantly starving for. But earlier that day...Villanelle stuffed the rest of the sandwich into her mouth, hoping to bury the acidic feeling of shame that curdled in her stomach. Eve had looked so repulsed by Villanelle earlier that day, and although the heat of that emotion warmed her just as much as any of Eve’s positive affections, Villanelle found the effects of Eve’s negativity to be too short lived in comparison. 

She nudged Eve’s foot. “What is on your mind?”

“I want a haircut."

“What?”

Using her fingers, Eve imitated the motions of scissors against her hair. “A haircut. You know, snip snip?”

“But your hair…” Villanelle shook her head. “I see no reason why you should get a haircut.”

“Uh, it’s too long? It will make me less immediately recognizable? Because I want to,” Eve finished firmly. “My hair. My body. My rules.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?” Eve stood up indignantly. “This isn’t up for discussion, Villanelle. I’m getting a haircut.”

Villanelle swallowed hard. “No, Eve. I don’t want you to cut your hair.”

“Why is this such a problem for you?”

_Because it’s like I’m losing a piece of you._

“Because I like your hair the way it is, okay? Don’t cut it.”

“But this isn’t about what _you_ want. _I_ want a haircut and I’m getting one.” Eve took a few brisk steps, then whirled around. “Listen, I don’t want to fight with you. I really don’t. And this isn’t a discussion. It’s my choice. So go find us a hotel room while I get my haircut, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

The sun curled through Eve’s hair, and Villanelle felt an indescribable shiver at the sight. Eve was not angry, or at least not nearly angry _enough_ , which meant that she was not completely oblivious and stupid in her righteous rage. Villanelle watched her walk away, let her walk away, at least two blocks before following. People threaded between them: pushing baby strollers, blabbing loudly on their phones, shouting over the incessant hum of traffic, and shoving past Villanelle with all the delicacy of a battering ram. 

Eve’s pace was considerably hobbled by the fact that she was burdened with both her worn handbag, which was slung over left her shoulder, and the duffel bag that she hauled in her right hand. Villanelle kept a leisurely pace, ducking behind flower stalls and taking inclined paths that ran parallel to Eve. She kept her hands stuffed in her pockets, braced her body for the collisions that were inflicted by other bodies, and maintained a scorching gaze on Eve that seemed to melt people out of her way. 

One of the longest avenues was flanked by office and apartment buildings that had facades painted daffodil-yellow. On the bottom floor, various shops and cafés tempted throngs of passersby. When Eve’s attention was caught by a hairdresser that looked to be the same age as her, Eve apparently struck up a fine conversation while the hairdresser finished her cigarette. Villanelle perched on a bench once they went inside and observed with a keenness that could have sharpened all the deadliest knives in her arsenal. 

The hairdresser placed Eve in a chair located on the left side of the room, close to the entrance. Good. Then with a flourish, she covered Eve with a garish cape. Villanelle flinched when the hairdresser began cutting at the thickest bottom threads of Eve’s luxurious hair. It truly looked as though this particular hairdresser was massively incompetent because she drastically varied the length of hair and angle of the scissors with each snip. 

After a particularly uneven shearing, a flustered Eve turned around to confront the hairdresser. Villanlle’s grin of approval quickly veered into shock and rage at the sight of the hairdresser grasping a fistful of Eve’s hair. By the time she’d viciously yanked Eve’s head back, Villanelle burst through the door.

Eve managed to twist free of the seat. She dodged the scissors, scooped up her handbag, and swung it at the hairdresser. It thudded against her right flank, which was enough to unbalance her subsequent swing. 

The rest of the hairdressers screamed, along with their clients. Villanelle shoved the telephone off the front desk just as another hairdresser reached for it, and pushed Eve’s assailant before she could launch into a flurry of motion. 

Upon recovering, the assailant’s scissors flashed through the air. Villanelle ducked. The scissors arced towards her chest. Villanelle pivoted, then brought her elbow down hard on the assailant’s collarbone. Her fingers sprang open. Villanelle grabbed the scissors. The assailant ran for the back room of the salon.

Eve was yelling something at Villanelle, something about being careful, but her voice came to Villanelle as if she was hearing it from the opposite end of a tunnel muffled with cotton. Only the scissors she held felt real: the cool, thin metal of the handle shank, the cutting edges clasped in a terminal union. 

The pain scorching her right shoulder blade was the next dose of realness that sharpened Villanelle’s senses. She lunged at the assailant and this movement tore Eve’s meticulous stitches. Judging from the hot oozing feeling that followed, Villanelle’s suit was now ruined with a sizable patch of blood. She swung the scissors with renewed passion, slicing the air until she’d backed the assailant against the wall. 

Sweat gathered on Villanelle’s forehead. Her ragged breaths filled the small room. The assailant tried to merge with the wall, still leaning as far back as she could, although there was nowhere left for her to go. She met Villanelle’s eyes, a broken plea stuck in her throat. 

Villanelle smiled.

She rammed the scissors into the assailant's throat. Once. Twice. Three times. And on the fourth, Villanelle shoved the gore covered scissors all the way through to the back of the assailant's throat. They remained firmly lodged there. Blood flowed from her ravaged throat, dripped between the scissor’s thumb and finger holes, slid from the sticky blades and drenched her apron. Villanelle relieved her of a silver USB concealed in one of the back pockets. 

The salon had emptied when Villanelle returned to Eve. She accepted the USB Villanelle handed over. She made no comment on Villanelle’s bloodied left hand, or her unstitched right shoulder blade. Villanelle steered her outside, bags in tow. They walked for about a block and managed to squeeze into a packed bus that took them to the other side of the city.

Here, most of the buildings had drab, stone facades and were impossibly thin and tall. They crookedly clambered into each other. The grimy assemblage of housing blocks looked appropriately dour in the weakened afternoon sunlight. A clinic, a social center for the homeless, and a shell of a supermarket stood side by side. Railway tracks criss-crossed, like a fishing net thrown over the entire area. The train station was graffiti covered. Drug blanched zombies, most of them young, wandered the streets and the entire place felt as if its vital capillaries were ripped out. 

A motel close to the train station had a few vacancies left. No one thought twice about accepting a bloodied young woman and her ostensibly traumatized, middle-aged woman companion. There was a suffocating sense of isolation to the room that they took up, a windowless room at the very end of the hall near a flickering, droning parking light. 

Villanelle inspected the room and was quite relieved to find no traces of semen stains on the pillows. The carpet was threadbare, but recently vacuumed. A single plastic chair occupied the corner opposite the creaky bed, while a vase of not altogether wilted flowers lent the room a more pleasant scent than it otherwise might have had. 

Eve went to the clinic, unsupervised, and came back with a first aid kit. Villanelle sat on the bed, topless. Eve tended to Villanelle’s newly ruptured wound and inserted fresh stitches; they didn’t speak until she was finished and Villanelle cautiously turned to look at Eve. Everything about her posture and the look in her eyes screamed that she had barricaded herself against assault, as surely as the decrepit apartments outside had sealed themselves in with white security shutters. 

“How can you be naked? Here? Now?” asked Eve, watching Villanelle discard her remaining clothing and flop onto the bed. 

“Don’t worry, the bed is clean. I checked.” Villanelle traced her stab wound scar. “You are stressed, Eve. I am naked because I am trying to relax. You should try it.”

Eve sat down next to Villanelle. She rubbed her temples. Villanelle focused on a spider crawling across the ceiling. 

“Why can’t we be good people?” wondered Eve.

“We are.” 

Eve grimaced. Villanelle clarified:

“To each other.”

“I don’t know.” Eve sighed. “Sometimes I’m not even sure I want to be a good person.”

“Sometimes?”

“All of the time.”

Villanelle propped herself up on her elbow. “Why don’t you want to be a good person? Isn’t that your thing?”

Eve forced out a laugh. “I-I feel like I’m losing myself.”

“You are not losing who you were. You are finally becoming who you used to pretend not to be.” 

“Niko told me I was a good person. The kindest person he knew. I hated him for it.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what my father used to say. He insisted that I should be a good person. And when I wasn’t, according to him, I was the worst person in the world.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“I do regret that him and I never saw eye to eye.” Eve chewed on her bottom lip. “He was the type of father that told me whenever the ice cream truck played music, that meant there was no ice cream.”

“Oh yeah, he sounds like a totally good person,” said Villanelle, with a rueful chuckle.

“I tried reconciling with him so many times. It’s important to try and resolve conflicts with a person while they’re alive,” Eve added. “I think it’s supposed to be part of the whole good person thing.” 

“You know, I remember something I read in the philosophy book Aaron sent me. It said that the Lockean or Roussean definition of being good is fulfilling the right to do whatever the hell you want.” Villanelle smirked. “But then there’s Aristotle’s more ancient definition of being a good person, which is the ability to master your passions so that you may devote your life to pursuing some sort of common good.”

“Let me guess: you don’t agree with the old, white bearded man’s philosophy?”

“I don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I will always do whatever I want. It feels good. It is good. Simple, Eve.”

Villanelle folded herself upright. She made sure that Eve was looking at her intently when she said:

“You asked me what my point was with the police officer in Lille. The point is that I did what I _wanted_ to do. Wanting to do something is reason enough to do it. Especially if it feels good.”

Eve didn’t respond. Villanelle prompted Eve, with a fluttering passing over her heart.

“Could you have stopped me from doing what I wanted to do?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Actually, yes. You could have. Probably. So that is not the problem, Eve.”

“What do you mean?”  
  
“I am sure that you could have stopped me, if you really wanted to. But you didn’t really _want_ to, and that is what you are feeling so guilty about.”

After a long silence, Eve managed to say:

“You’re right.”  
  
“Of course I am.” 

Villanelle dragged her fingers through Eve’s butchered hair. Thankfully, it was still thick, and heavily carried Eve’s scent. 

“Don’t be afraid of being your own person, Eve.”

“But what if I’m not a good person?”

“Doesn’t matter. And I don’t care. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

“Then maybe...I don’t want to be a good person anymore,” whispered Eve shakily. “I just want to be a person. Not good. Not bad. Just...a person. A real person.”

“Me too.”

“Will you...will you help me?”

“Yes.”

“I-I want to understand. I really do.”

“You want to really understand?” Villanelle shooed Eve off the bed. “Go and kill a man. Then come back and talk to me.” 

* * *

Eve’s feet were soft and easy on the cobblestoned streets. Her gait was measured, self-possessed but not cocky enough to inspire a chase. She kept calm, breathed evenly, and continued to stalk silently behind the man that she had chosen to kill.

There was nothing special about him; he’d been sitting in the park beside his canvas messenger bag, hunched over a slice of pizza. On a whim, Eve picked him out from the rest of the joggers and Frisbee throwers and dog walkers. Softly, quietly, without being too obvious, Eve followed him as soon as he’d left the shade of the tree he was underneath. She moved closer to see that the back of his neck glistened with sweat, close enough to burn him with a touch of her finger, then allowed him to drift away a few meters. 

This pattern of catch and release turned Eve into the shadow attached to the soles of his feet; the predatory flash between speeding vehicles that he avoided; the gap between his step and his fall; the whites of his eyes shining as he turned to look behind him.

Eve became the fear that quickened his pace past wide open parking lots, bustling restaurants, bicycle racks, and oppressive stretches of empty streets. A drone flying overhead startled Eve; her already frayed nerves unraveled further when she saw it lazily circling between her and her target. She clutched her handbag harder, nails digging into the soft leather. Her eyes darted around her, seeking immediate shelter. The queasiness in her stomach subsided, as did the sour, yet metallic taste in her mouth when she observed the drone being controlled by a group of awed kids. 

Relief flooded Eve as she realized that the civilian drone’s purpose was for photography, “cool Instagram posts!” as one of the kids out it, and that Eve wasn’t about to be filled with bullets. She closed the distance between herself and her target again, noting that his muscular build posed a threat to all five-foot-six, soft-spoken, frumpled-style of her. From behind, she could ram a pen into his neck, or tear his face with her fingernails, or put him in a chokehold. 

Eve wanted to test out death inflicted on someone else for a change, and she smiled in recognition that she was unconsciously imitating the boldness of Villanelle’s direct approach. It felt good not to think, even in passing, of defence. In this lofty headspace, infused with stirring touches of Villanelle’s strength and resourcefulness and power, Eve only thought about attack: the split of concrete as she darted forward, the heat pounding in her veins, shallow breaths swirling in her lungs, her sharp, glistening teeth ready to tear, dark eyes swallowing her target whole. 

They converged at a transportation hub. Buses and taxis arrived and departed with the frequency of worker bees. Eve stepped onto the bus terminal and was suffused with the familiar rush of excitement that she felt whenever she was with Villanelle; Eve realized that it was also the same electric current that had thrummed in her as she contemplated shoving the older man off the metro platform in London. 

Here and now, Eve felt simply and unquestioningly alive.

On the edge of this platform, her target nervously checked his phone numerous times within the space of a minute; adjusted the thick belt buckle holding his denim shorts up; belched; paced the yellow strip that warned WATCH YOUR STEP and was clearly too preoccupied to notice Eve lingering in his personal space.

Small, end-of-life slip ups.

While Eve did not have Villanelle’s skills, durability, or toughness, she did have more than enough cunning to position herself directly behind her target’s fully vulnerable back. All it took was one shove, one movement of her arms coming up to meet his back, a thrust that would end his existence and kickstart Eve’s, which was a fair trade in her mind. 

Eve came closer. Thought that Villanelle would surely approve. Felt her heart skip a beat at the thought. Her hands were warm, impossibly warm. Slowly, slowly, she brought them forward, ready to stumble and claim an accident, if her target suddenly turned on her. 

A bus was pulling into the terminal.

Her target shifted from foot to foot. Eve was close enough to see the stitching of his muscle shirt. The bus was slowing down, but before it completely came to a halt, Eve could push him over the edge. She could, she could. One push. One. push. Just one. One. Push. One. Push. One. Push.

This chant gathered in her pounding head. She waited too long. With a weary whoosh of decompressed air, the bus stopped in front of her target. Eve blinked. 

Rage exploded in her chest. Her hands shook now, all the heat from them sucked out at the sight of her target still being alive. Another man emerged from the bus, then startled Eve by embracing her target. She teetered away from him. 

Because at the other man’s touch, her target became a man again, a human being kissing another human being, a quick indulgence in affection out here in public. The two men walked away from the bus platform to get into a taxi. Eve caught the other man’s hand lingering on his partner’s lower back. She burned and burned. 

Alone on the platform, Eve choked on her disappointment. She didn’t do it, couldn’t do it, even though she’d wanted to. Would Villanelle mock her now? Would she turn away disdainfully? Would she reject her, forever closed off now to the possibility of murder, of understanding and sharing this pleasure between them? 

A new taxi honked its horn, snapping Eve out of her torturous reverie. She got inside, mumbled the motel’s location, and remained mute for the rest of the journey. It was tempting to contemplate murdering the taxi driver just to somehow redeem herself, but even Villanelle would agree that this wouldn’t be a practical choice. 

The taxi dumped Eve in front of a shot-up convenience store near the motel. Running on pure impulse, she bought a pack of cigarettes and two burner phones there. Then she trudged back to the motel, lingering with her shame in the air-conditioned lobby. Her iPad rumbled. Frowning, Eve opened her inbox to see an email from Carolyn. 

_Hello Eve,_

_I am delighted with your progress! I suppose Kenny is too, but I simply can’t tell anymore (he is working very hard and cannot find the time to directly communicate his own progress to either of you)._

_To be quite honest, I have no idea why people view struggle, or the admission of it, as a weakness. I do believe that being human and vulnerable is shunned these days for the sake of a facade. I’d prefer someone to be acquainted with the dark side of being human and to be honest about it, rather than pretend that it doesn’t exist or that it isn’t admirable to have faced it._ _  
_ _  
__Perhaps Villanelle can correct me if I am wrong (and we do know how she loves to correct me) but I think the expression the young ones use these days is that “the struggle is real.”_

_Regarding the tulip field incident, I think that you handled it very well. You presented your perspective and reasoning. Villanelle rejected it and did what she resolved to do anyway. An undesirable outcome occurred, but such is the nature of field work._

_Villanelle’s behaviour should not be surprising. You know that she has a history of knob chopping. You know that you cannot control her. Considering this, I’ll emphasize again that you handled the situation very well._

_I understand that you are struggling with feeling like a failure, Eve. But you did all that you could. While the tulip field incident is very unfortunate, it is also a learning opportunity for you. Really try to reassess your approach the next time there is a high-conflict situation with Villanelle._

_Namely, instead of trying to control her, perhaps you should be offering guidance about the options and alternatives available to her. Please do give this some thought. You mustn't lose your head, Eve._

_In the interim, I suggest that you treat the tulip field incident the same way you treated the garbage truck incident: cordially._

_Your professionalism is reflected most poignantly when it comes to failure. How you deal with it speaks volumes about you. After all Eve, it is not our failures that define us, but rather our recovery from them._

_Therefore, let me also suggest that you and Villanelle resolve your professional concerns as soon as possible._

_Your mutual survival is dependent on your professionalism._

_Sincerely,_

_Carolyn Martens  
  
_ _P.S. Please do try to be more discreet from now on. The mark of a successful covert operation is that no one hears about it. This is rather hard to accomplish when you’re plastered all over the news._

Carolyn’s line _but you did all that you could_ stuck out to Eve like a mockery of reassurance. There was no way that she could explain to Carolyn that she _hadn’t_ done everything she could have. She’d been paralyzed. And only Villanelle truly knew that Eve hadn’t really _wanted_ to do anything about Villanelle’s knob chopping, in the end.

Eve could have gotten into the other car. She could have driven away, somewhere far away where Villanelle and The Twelve and MI6 couldn’t possibly find her (or she hoped). She could have restrained Villanelle (the very thought made her want to laugh hysterically). She could have thrown herself between the knife and the officer, if only to see whether Villanelle would have hesitated.   

Worse, Eve knew that she hadn’t done any of these things because it truly didn’t matter what Villanelle had done; Eve’s feelings remained just as intense and unmovable from her heart. 

This cold, hard fact kept Eve tethered to Villanelle. And maybe Eve walked back to the motel room because she had come down with the worst case of Stockholm Syndrome ever. Or maybe, possibly, she walked back to the motel room because there, dozing on the bed, was the one person in this entire, irredeemable world who understood and accepted her with welcoming arms. 

The one person in this entire, shithole world who wanted to make her days brighter and perhaps the only one who suggested murder as an artful form of self-expression, affirmation, agency, and freedom. The one person, Eve thought feverishly, who made murder _cool_ and who would never judge Eve for the thrill that she found in it.

Eve was content to not disturb Villanelle; a nice, long soak in the bathtub was calling her, and she’d just put her handbag on the plastic chair, kicked off her shoes, stripped down to her tank top and panties, when Villanelle stirred. 

She sat up in bed, hair tumbling down to her breasts and with the sheets pooled around her waist. 

“Hey,” Villanelle greeted.  
  
“Hi.”

“How’d it go?”  
  
Eve avoided Villanelle’s gaze.

“Couldn’t do it, huh?” Villanelle sighed in a way which indicated that she was a long-suffering woman. Her voice was thick with the residue of sleep and husky enough to send shivers down Eve’s spine. “Oh well. There will be another time.”

“That’s it?”  
  
Villanelle tilted her head. “What did you expect me to say, Eve?”  
  
“Uh, I don’t know. Thanks for trying, maybe?”

“There are no rewards for attempted murder. It is only the successful ones that count.”

“Yeah well, maybe I’m not the killer you want me to be,” Eve snapped.  
  
“That is true, maybe you are not who I thought you were,” Villanelle bit back. “So disappointing.”

“You want me to be a mess! You want me to be scared!”

Villanelle glared at her. Eve approached the bed, radiated with stress and anger and exhaustion and despair and longing and just...everything. All at once, slamming into her. 

“This is what you wanted,” hissed Eve.

“This is what you wanted!” 

Villanelle’s answering shout propelled her out of bed. She slammed Eve against the wall, with its peeling and faded green wallpaper. Eve went very still. Her shoulders popped with the force of Villanelle’s grip. Their breaths mingled. The heat between their bodies grew molten. Eve felt her pulse quicken when Villanelle put a forearm across her throat. 

A vein in Eve’s neck twitched. Swollen, pronounced, it pulsed and pulsed. Villanelle eyed it hungrily. She licked her lips. 

“This is what you wanted,” Villanelle repeated, softly. Her voice carried a questioning undercurrent, teased between folds of certainty. 

“Yes,” growled Eve. 

Villanelle’s fingernails dug into Eve’s shoulders. Carefully, slowly, Eve arched her back so that she was flush against Villanelle; her nipples chafed against the material of Eve’s tank top. Villanelle slipped the straps of Eve’s bra off her shoulders, pulling at them until they snapped back against Eve’s shuddering skin. 

Now that her throat was freed, Eve managed to rasp:  
  
“Kiss me.”  
  
“Amazing,” murmured Villanelle. Her hands slipped underneath Eve’s tank top to toy with the bra’s clasp. She’d pointedly avoided touching Eve’s breasts, which made Eve want to crush them against Villanelle’s with renewed vigor. “Change just two letters, and you would have been asking for me to kill you…”  
  
“Do it. Go on, do it!”

Villanelle tossed Eve’s bra aside. She propped her knee between Eve’s legs. As if on cue, Eve felt a rush of wetness soak through her panties. She quaked with this _wanting,_ drowned in it just as surely as if Villanelle was holding her head under water. A strained gasp trickled from Eve when Villanelle’s knee applied more pressure against her clit. 

“Ask me,” whispered Eve.

“I don’t like asking for things.”   
  
“If you don't ask for things, you never get anything.”

Villanelle regarded Eve steadily. “People give me things without me asking for them.”  
  
“That's...better, actually.”  
  
“Yes,” Villanelle replied coolly, “it is.”

Eve placed her hands around Villanelle’s throat. “Ask me.”

“Don’t know what you mean.”  
  
Eve’s hands tightened, “Ask me.”

“Really, Eve, I don’t-”  
  
Eve’s grip was tight now, choking off the rest of Villanelle’s insolence. She kept her hands locked firmly in place, her eyes focused on the reddening of Villanelle’s skin, her racing pulse slamming against Eve’s fingers, her eyes never once sliding off Eve’s face. She looked enraptured, Eve thought. 

Villanelle didn’t resist, just surrendered herself to a controlled fall, taking Eve down with her onto the bed. Eve momentarily let go of Villanelle’s throat to reposition herself. She straddled Villanelle’s hips, which only added Villanelle’s own wetness to the already slick coating on Eve’s panties. 

Eve ached for the friction and ecstatic pressure that grinding against Villanelle would give her, but all she could manage instead was a barely coherent forward pitch and a weakness that flooded her arms at the sight of Villanelle’s eyes closing in serenity. She kept them closed as she said hoarsely: 

“I would never ask you to do something that you don’t want to do.”

“I-I know.” Eve looked down at Villanelle through a tangle of uncut bangs. 

“Do you want to fuck me now, Eve?”

“Yes.”  
  
“Okay.” Villanelle’s eyes sprang open. “But I do not want you to.”  
  
“What?” 

Eve instantly squirmed off Villanelle. She rolled beside her, their bodies still touching, but panic now coursed through Eve instead of desire. 

“Like I said Eve, you only get rewards for a successful murder,” said Villanelle.

“Oh, fuck off,” Eve said with a shaky laugh. “That’s not fair.”  
  
“Too bad.”  
  
“Are you seriously going to tempt me with murder-”  
  
“Sex, you mean.”  
  
“-and keep me hanging on, and just-just expect me to let you do that? Seriously, Villanelle?”

Villanelle was not smiling. “I do not want to have sex with you right now.”  
  
“But…” Eve wrestled with her emotions. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Why?”  
  
“No means no, Eve. I don’t owe you an explanation.” Villanelle pulled away from Eve, although she remained seated on the bed.

“I want to understand.”  
  
Villanelle muttered something that sounded decidedly like  _fuck,_ only it was spoken in a far more melodic language. 

“Okay fine, you asked for it Eve. I don’t want to have sex with you because if we have sex right now, you will feel guilty after. I want you to fuck me without shame. And I want you to let me fuck you,” she added, “without shame.”

“I’m not ashamed!”  
  
“Yes, you are. It is for the same reason that you couldn’t kill a man today.”

“What reason is that, Villanelle?”  
  
“You tell me.” 

Eve turned her head away. She felt a bit grateful that she wasn’t completely naked. “We are emotionally abusive towards each other.”  
  
“Maybe that is true. But I am still a person, Eve. I am not just some emotionless, abusive robot that doesn’t deserve love,” said Villanelle. “Besides, I have only had three relationships in my whole life. You are my first real one, Eve. So I am learning and I am trying.”

“I’m trying too! It’s just that...sometimes, I just don’t know...I mean you can be so violent, and then you’re so fucking lovely, and I can’t keep up with you, and I just want to know-I _need_ to know, because it’s really hard to tell sometimes...how you feel about me.”  
  
Villanelle’s voice shook.  “I love you.”  
  
“No.”

“I do.” Villanelle affirmed harshly.  “It is possible to love someone deeply, yet to be bad at loving them. But I really am trying. I will try to be better. For you. Promise.”

Eve’s voice was a restrained shout. “Your two ex girlfriends are dead. You’ve admitted that you think about killing me. How do I know you won’t _murder_ me, too?”

“You have to trust me, Eve.”

Villanelle’s expression seemed to mirror Eve’s own, a half-mask of concern, yearning, and hesitation. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. Then Villanelle got up from the bed. Eve’s heart sank. 

Only to soar back up, all the way into her throat, when she saw that Villanelle had returned, dangling the sash taken from her golden kimono.  
  
“Will you let me blindfold you, Eve?”  
  
Eve’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“So you know you can trust me.”  
  
"Um. Okay."

Eve could hardly breathe as Villanelle covered her eyes with the sash. The darkness was complete, soft and oddly comforting. Eve heard her own heartbeats, as well as Villanelle’s, beating in swirling colours behind the makeshift blindfold. 

“Eventually Eve,” came Villanelle’s whisper, “you will have to reconcile your ideas about me being both a saint and a demon.”

Her warmth rolled off to Eve’s right side, then faded slowly away. Eve reached out blindly. Her hands closed around nothing. The bed inclined as Villanelle shifted closer to Eve. In the absence of touch, Eve concentrated on the anticipation crackling between them, the scents and sounds that came to her beyond the veil of darkness. Knowing that Villanelle was there, _feeling_ this truth, even though she couldn't necessarily see or touch her, wrapped Eve in a blanket of peace.

Villanelle’s breath returned against the side of her neck, but this time, it was accompanied by her lips and her touch. A guttural moan vibrated through Eve at the sensation of Villanelle kissing her neck, then light sucking and biting at her wildly pulsating jugular vein.  
  
Eve reached around and buried a hand in Villanelle’s hair, while Villanelle’s touch, smooth and soft, melded into the shape of her other hand on Eve’s thigh. She gently rubbed and kneaded the area there. Another hand materialized at Eve’s waist, her fingers dancing like silk unfurled across Eve’s skin. 

Those fingers drew up Eve’s figure, dashing teasingly against her skin, nails grazing ever so slightly, circling around her breasts, stopping coyly just shy of dipping below her waist. All the while, Villanelle kept kissing Eve’s neck and murmuring into her ear, her voice dripping like honey in languages that Eve could identify but could not fully understand. Finally, Villanelle spoke in English.    
  
“You can trust me, Eve. I am not going to hurt you.”  
  
“Why?”

Eve felt Villanelle ease her blindfold off.

“Because you’re mine.”

Eve nudged her away with a gentle kind of reproach that was rooted in disbelief. 

“No.”

“You are, you’re mine.”

Eve breathed out the word. 

“Yours…”

Villanelle took Eve’s face in her hands and kissed her deeply. The same rush that Eve felt in the tulip fields came back to her now. Greedily, she pressed Villanelle hard against her, returning the kiss with unrelenting strength.  

When Villanelle opened her eyes, they were clouded by darkness. She pushed Eve down and moved above her now. Eve watched her arms, the same thready muscles and veins that all amounted to movements of murder, and found Villanelle’s present tenderness surreal. 

She touched Eve’s knuckles to her lips. 

“Do you trust me now, Eve? Do you want to be mine?”  
  
“Yes,” said Eve. 

Villanelle shifted over her, reached for the pack of cigarettes, and lit one with a faint look of distaste. Eve pried it from her fingers. Took a long drag. Grinned at the smoke curling between them, until Villanelle dissipated it with a wave of her hand.

“What do you like most about being an assassin?” Eve asked.

“I used to get really restless,” replied Villanelle. “Now I’m not so much anymore.”

“Restless,” Eve echoed.

“Restless,” Villanelle said. “You know-restless? I kept thinking how many places there were. Now I get to see them all.”

Eve laughed. “I guess you picked the right life.”

She smoked lavishly, sending out plumes through her nose and letting the smoke roll from her mouth. She thought about much she hated smoking, but how it felt so good from time to time.

Villanelle stole her half-finished cigarette. Eve thought that she would have a puff after all, but Villanelle stubbed it out instead. She lay back down, her body facing Eve’s. Villanelle’s shoulder smelled faintly sweet, like candle wax. Eve inhaled deeply, her eyes half-closed, and tucked in the sheets around Villanelle’s chest. Eve placed her palm on Villanelle’s stomach, but when she tried to move her hand, Villanelle covered it with her own.

“Honestly Eve, do you feel ashamed for loving me?”  
  
“No.” Eve’s eyes were moist, the line of her mouth set determinedly. Her voice rang loud and clear. “And that’s the truth, Villanelle. Being with you, like this? I don’t feel shame. I feel love.”

Villanelle sighed contentedly. She brushed her lips against Eve’s, which curled into a bright smile. 

“Of all those places you’ve been,” asked Eve, “which was your favorite?”

“Obviously, my favourite place is wherever I'm with you.” Villanelle dragged her thumb against Eve’s chin. “But I do miss Paris.”

Eve reached out and delicately stroked Villanelle’s face.

“Then let’s go back to Paris.”


	8. Up In Flames

Eve watched Villanelle loosen a wooden floorboard at the threshold of her apartment in Paris. She heaved it away with an exaggerated gasp that transformed into a casual toss over the railing. Eve winced as the sound of the floorboard thudding to the tiled ground echoed throughout the stairwell.

The key Villanelle extricated from the floorboard’s hiding place was burnished brass. She inserted it into the lock, wiggled it around, rattled the doorknob. The apartment door refused to open by persuasion, so Villanelle opened it by coercion; she kicked it in and waltzed across the landing, winking over her shoulder at Eve. 

At first glance, Villanelle’s apartment looked pretty much the same: pale blue peeling wallpaper, high ceilings with their curling coat of paint, creaking and cracking hardwood floors, and tall windows that offered views of Montmartre and the rooftops of Paris beyond. But as Eve and Villanelle drifted from room to room, they noticed that the apartment was cleansed. 

Gone were Villanelle’s books and fashion magazines from the white shelf in the hallway. There were no kitschy lamps casting light from their humble corners. Her exercise equipment, once conveniently scattered wherever she happened to reach for it, was nowhere to be found. The abstract paintings that Villanelle had curated were taken down from the walls. The bathroom, with its balck and white checkered floors, pink tub and sink, was devoid of any towels, soap, or shampoo. 

Mercifully, the wispy white curtains were still draped across the windows and Villanelle’s armoire, although empty, remained standing in the bedroom. Her vanity desk was gone, along with all her perfume and makeup, but a lone mirror slanted against the wall opposite the right side of the bed. It, too, was bare, stripped of linens, sheets, and pillows. Eve drifted to it.

Villanelle shuffled around in the adjacent kitchenette. The leather sofa there had been knifed open, yet resolutely propped itself up against the window. No more glass table, no more shelves stocked with canned soup, baking powder, and spices, no more cupboards filled with neatly arranged glasses and mugs. And of course, the fridge was empty. 

“Do you think they’re watching us right now?” Eve called out.

“They can watch all they want.” Villanelle poked her head around the corner. “There is no food.”

“Mmm.”

“We just spent all night and day on a train that serves only those shitty nut and dried fruit packets. I am hungry.”  
  
“Mmm.”

Eve heard the floor groan, felt Villanelle stand at her shoulder. 

“Are you thinking about it?” she asked softly. 

“I’m thinking about what we would have done if I hadn’t stabbed you.”

Villanelle’s breath was hot on the back of Eve’s neck. “Our last few days were rough. Let me make it up to you.”   
  
Eve tilted her head, allowing Villanelle better access to one side of her neck, where she pressed tender, lingering kisses.  
  
“We’ll get some groceries. Then we’ll go to Chanel and I will buy you everything you want.”

A long, low sigh slid out of Eve. “You don’t want to...stay in?”

“I do. But I never have sex on an empty stomach.” 

Eve turned to see Villanelle smiling playfully. She extended her hand. Eve took it. 

“Come,” said Villanelle.

And Eve let herself be guided along Montmartre’s steep and cobblestoned streets in a spellbound daze. Pretty lampposts and lush trees lined the streets. Throngs of people made it hard to maneuver quickly. Eve found herself still holding Villanelle’s hand. Their fingers laced together and Villanelle’s thumb occasionally glided across the back of Eve’s hand.  
  
A street musician strummed his guitar at the bottom of the steps, using the architecture as a kind of natural amphitheatre to captivate a gathering audience. Villanelle hummed along with the melody, interspersed with the barking of stray dogs that ambled through the crowd. She tugged Eve down a side street and they emerged onto a boulevard of bars, kebab shops, stalls selling towels, clothes, sheets, linens, fresh produce, baked goods, postcards, and cheap, gaudy gifts. 

There was also quite an assortment of cabarets and sex shops which sold things that Eve wasn’t creative enough to even dream up. In between bags stuffed with olive oil, milk, eggs, flour, champagne, and baguettes, Villanelle promptly bought a double-ended, hot pink strap on as well as several bottles of lubricants and oils. She tucked this bag underneath Eve’s arm with a wicked grin and carried on walking ahead with an extra bounce in her step.

On their way back to the apartment, Eve and Villanelle passed grassy and terraced gardens. Chirping birds filled the balmy air. Ivy stuck to the sides of the pastel green, blue, and rosé buildings. Scooters and compact cars drifted up and down the streets. Young couples all around held hands and kissed beneath the trees, while widows threw flowers on graves and old men lugged watering cans towards tombs surrounded by plants in the nearby cemetery. Life cycles and death rituals clashed amidst the cheers of children and the trudging, echoing steps of people making their pilgrimage up and down Montmartre’s stairs. 

The mouthwatering smell of grilled meats, sauces, and fresh seafood drifted to Eve and Villanelle as they returned to the apartment’s street. Once they’d hauled the groceries upstairs and loaded the fridge, Villanelle sliced the baguettes while Eve poured olive oil onto some paper plates. She thoroughly soaked the slices, crunched on the other dry ones with abandon, and watched Villanelle put milk and eggs on the counter, with a promise to cook for Eve when they came back from Chanel. 

Once they’d devoured all the baguettes, Eve and Villanelle set out again. Villanelle took them down a street opposite from the one they’d walked earlier. This way was quieter and more refined with its wine and cheese stores, small design shops, vintage clothing, flower stalls, and more bread and pastry shops. Gradually, the building facades became cleaner, paler, and more elegant. 

Past a park with its wrought iron gates, past a line of cars parked all along the street, past a luxurious hotel and a group of students posing to take selfies, Eve and Villanelle came to 31 Rue Cambon. 

The Chanel boutique was instantly recognizable thanks to its striking black and white palette. Two large windows flanked the entrance, displaying the latest outerwear for the season, along with complementary handbags. Villanelle strutted inside like she owned the place, radiating with an air that was so perfectly balanced between haughtiness and confidence that it would have earned an approving nod from Chanel herself. 

Eve basked in the scent of perfume that shrouded her upon entering. Its composition was based on sandalwood and vanilla, with floral notes of rose, jasmine, and lily of the valley. Bursts of its zingy, bold and fresh fragrance draped over Eve while she explored the boutique on the ground floor. The main room was milk-white. Black trim accented the walls and corners, joined by a black diamond pattern that adorned the tiled floor. The heavy obsidian reception desk, black velvet armchair, and ebony table pushed against the back wall only served to highlight the breathtaking colour of the oil paintings enclaved into the ceiling. 

Collections of dresses and suits hung on their black hangers emblazoned with Chanel’s golden initials. Creme, sea foam green, grey, and pink fabrics formed blazers and suit jackets, many of which boasted metallic solid gold embellishments or diamond encrusted lapels and shoulder pads. Eve trailed her hands over the garments, slipped her fingers into pockets, felt over collars, squeezed hems, parted hangers to reach new layers. 

Frantic, flowing French reached her. She looked up to see Villanelle holding a houndstooth, charcoal-coloured pea coat, which she shoved into a saleswoman’s face. Alarmed and apologetic, the lady directed Villanelle to a section of trench coats and offered her a glass of champagne. Villanelle sipped it coolly. When she finished, the saleswoman approached her with a beige trench coat that rested elegantly on Villanelle’s shoulders and flattered her height. She went through a dozen more coats, posing in front of the many mirrors for lengthy periods, tossing her hair, and finally turning on her heel to go look at dresses.

Eve carefully removed a suit from its hanger. The rich, oxblood colour accentuated it’s finely stitched black floral pattern. She shrugged it on, resting the matching pants over a cozy armchair, and stared her reflection down. The dark fall of her hair was shortened, touching down just at the top of her shoulders, but it popped alluringly against the suit all the same. Slowly, Eve turned her body to appreciate the comfortable yet graceful flare of the cut. 

She smoothed the material. Gloried in its quality. Found herself adoring the way it felt on her, and how it made her feel like she could crush the world between her bare hands. After she’d glanced down at the price tag, Eve suddenly felt an overwhelming need to find the entire champagne bottle to drain. 

Villanelle soon came over carrying a black jacquard patterned suit of her own. It had velvet lapels and gold flecks strewn into the fabric. 

“Good, you like that suit! Me too.”

“Do you know how much this  _costs_?” asked Eve incredulously. 

Villanelle shrugged. “Why does it matter? I told you, I will buy you everything you want.”

“I’m not sure I want you to. It’s too much. Way too much.” 

“Am I not supposed to be the one with no money, while you are the financially stable older woman treating me to luxury, in return for sexual favours?”

“This costs as much as the down payment for my townhouse in London!” 

Eve reluctantly removed the suit. Villanelle cast an appreciative eye over the entire long rack, including all the delicate tops, blouses, and leather jackets that coexisted with the other suits. Then she addressed the expectant saleswoman and spoke in English for Eve’s benefit. 

“Eve wants everything on this rack,” Villanelle said. “What else do you want, Eve?”

“Oh my god!” flustered Eve, as the saleswoman relieved each and every item of clothing from its hanger. She neatly deposited the pile on the counter. 

Eve wished her own hair was longer so that she could steadily tear it out. “Villanelle, what are you doing?”

“Giving you what you want.”

“Fuck, Villanelle. 

“I believe the appropriate response is ‘thank you, Villanelle,’ but I’ll accept that one too.”

“God, I honestly don’t need all this _stuff_. I really want you. Only you. Just you,” Eve emphasized with a touch to the side of Villanelle’s face. “Especially you, exactly the way you are.”

“That is nice, Eve. Truly. But since you are mine, you will look good.”

Eve blinked. “Don’t I already?”

“Sure. It’s just that now you will be exactly the way I like.” Villanelle smirked. “Just think of it as being a better version of you. My treat.”

Without waiting to hear Eve’s response, Villanelle motioned for her to come upstairs. A stairway lined with mirrors led to the second floor fitting rooms. The third floor housed the studio, together with light-flooded workshops nestled below the rooftops. Eve emerged behind Villanelle on the extensive second floor; more mirrors made up whole walls, a plush beige carpet felt heavenly beneath Eve’s feet that were worn out from all the walking, and white leather armchairs with gold pillows sat outside the curtained change rooms. 

The air smelled faintly but unmistakably of decadent musk. Lamps with beaded detailing drenched the room with a soft, muted yellow light. Ivory mannequins flirted with each other, arranged in flamboyant poses that showed off jewelry, handbags, dresses, and deeper into the room, assortments of lingerie. 

Villanelle swept past their blank faces without a second glance, but Eve paused beside one. She tapped it hard enough to get Villanelle’s attention, then asked quietly: 

“Do you think I’m like this?” 

“Of course not! You are much better. You actually move.”

“Villanelle, I am not an object.” Eve moved her hand away, balled it into a fist. “I have a face. I have a body. I have a mind and a heart and a soul that are all my own. And I’m not made of plastic, I feel things.”

“Yes,” said Villanelle wearily. “Yes. Of course. I know you have feelings, Eve.”

Eve tried not to focus on how good Villanelle looked in this opulent space, how she fit right in with her surroundings as if they were created just to contain and impress her. 

“But you don’t care. Right?” Eve couldn’t shake the bitterness from her tone. 

“Actually, I do care about making you feel good right now.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes _me_ feel good. Knowing that you feel good means I’m doing a good job of being your partner.”

“Oh.” Eve ran a hand through her hair. “Okay. I appreciate knowing that.”

“Here.” Villanelle opened a drawer secreting three rows of silk and lace bras, complete with their corresponding panties. She offered a navy blue set to Eve, who accepted it and eagerly disappeared behind a curtain. 

She could hear Villanelle humming around the room, the rustling of more lingerie being selected, gasps and giggles coming from Villanelle’s parallel change room. Eve almost couldn’t recognize herself in the finery that enhanced her body. Her eyes scrutinized from head to toe, pausing at the perfect symmetry of her cleavage, the deep shade of the bra that brought out the smoothness and glow of her warming skin. Eve liked how the full cups were suspended from slender straps, with a white leafy design completed by woven stripes.

The light in the change room could not help but embrace the curves of Eve’s hips, to slip unashamedly past the silhouette of her panties, with their lustrous satin front and transparent mesh reverse. Eve dragged a finger across the lace embroidery and allowed herself a broad smile.

With a sense of recklessness, she stepped out to raid more drawers and pluck various sets of lingerie from their marble platforms. She added a copper coloured camisole and a sheer, emerald teddy glittering with sequins. Then a white bra that had small black polka dots, and white panties with silver roses stitched along the crotch seam caught her eye. She put this set on and felt the certainty blossom in her chest because she didn’t want to take it off. 

The sound of Villanelle drawing the curtains aside made Eve part her own. She couldn’t contain her gasp at the sight that greeted her.

Villanelle wore a garter set coloured passionate red. The bra flared against her skin, its sheer lace inserts contrasting against the shine of black rhinestones scattered on the rest of the fabric. The thong revealed the contours of her hips and the fishnets served to highlight her leonine strides as she came to Eve and tilted her chin up.  

Eve kissed her, hard. Villanelle inhaled sharply and entwined her fingers into Eve’s hair. In turn, Eve loosened Villanelle’s French braid and threaded her hands through Villanelle’s silken hair. Eve didn’t want to pull away, couldn’t tear her searing lips from Villanelle’s. It felt too good to be lost in the fire spreading outwards from her chest and the delirious smoke filling her mind. She gladly gave herself over to the haze until a short cough made her eyes fly open. 

“We will wear these immediately,” Villanelle announced breathlessly to the saleswoman by the stairs, who studiously noted the astronomical prices and added them to the already exponentially growing amount. She swiftly gathered their lingerie and went downstairs to let them hastily put their clothes back on.

At the counter, Villanelle took out her leather wallet. It was so worn out that its surface was smooth. She opened it, looked at it, then closed it. She handed it to Eve. 

“I am going to let you pay for us with my money. So you can be me for a moment, see if you like it or whatever.”

Eve took the wallet, Villanelle’s wallet. She flipped it over, looked at it this way and that, felt Villanelle’s weight in it. There was falseness in her identification, a manufactured fakery of who she was that made it possible for them to strike and disappear. But there was power, too. 

The photo of Villanelle was very real, with its vibrant smile and the golden tumble of her hair past her shoulders. The credit cards were quite real too, and Eve proffered one to the saleswoman who took it without batting an eyelash. 

 “I always wondered what it would be like to be you,” said Eve.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I used to picture you out there. Different people. Different. places. Doing good work, having  adventures. You were always on some adventure.”  
  
“Huh. I always wondered what it would be like to be you, with a steady partner, kids, roots. A place to call your own. Going to work. Going to the neighborhood barbecues and visiting friends. Everyone out there mowing their lawns at the same time, drinking coffee in the morning and wine in the evening. Nice. Normal. Safe. Respectable.”

“I thought you hated that kind of thing.”

“Well, I guess you don’t know too much about me after all.”

“I guess not.”

Eve and Villanelle left their hefty Chanel bags by the apartment door, resolving to properly unpack them when they’d gotten around to doing some decent laundry over the next few days. Villanelle disappeared into the kitchenette. Eve dragged the bag containing the hot pink strap on from underneath the bed and chuckled as she turned it over in her hands. She set it beside the bed as the clattering sounds of a skillet and the spurt of hot oil distracted her.

Soon, the apartment filled with the wholesome smell of crêpes. Eve watched Villanelle hum and sashay around the kitchenette. If she knew that Eve was observing her, she gave no indication (although Eve could think of no other possible reason why she would bother showing off that she could perfectly flip the crêpe in the skillet to brown its other side). 

A few layers of crêpes were already stacked on a paper plate by the time Villanelle asked:

“Savoury or sweet?”  
  
“Savoury, please.” 

Eve crossed the kitchenette to gather paper plates and napkins, then heaved the sofa around until it faced the unshuttered window. Early evening cloaked the rooftops of Paris. People still strolled the streets below, but in far less hectic numbers than earlier that day. Eve took a deep breath. Held it, held it until her heart was near bursting, until her lungs screamed for oxygen and her veins begged to split open. Then she exhaled, half-expecting to feel hollow, but instead found the warmth of contentment nestled just below her heart. 

Eve went to the vinyl records wedged between Villanelle’s armoire and the cold fireplace. She dusted off an Edith Piaf record and crackled to life that song about living life without regrets.  Villanelle finally brought the crêpes over, which she’d filled with chopped ham, red pepper and sautéed mushrooms, and also sprinkled with shredded Cheddar cheese.

After they’d eaten their fill and spent some time on the balcony, they went to lay on the bed. 

The music flowed over them. The strong and distinctive voice trembled into a wail. Sparrow-like notes trilled and crooned, reaching an aching crescendo before fluttering off into silence. Eve took Villanelle’s hand and put it on her chest so that Villanelle could feel the beating of her heart. The skin was warmer there, close to the bone. 

Captivated by Villanelle’s intense gaze, the heavy flesh of the years of misdirected love began to come off Eve. She gazed back. Silent. Waiting. Villanelle let Eve’s hand go. She turned on her side so they were facing one another. 

“I never thought this would happen.”

Without knife and without catastrophic interruption, Eve let Villanelle kiss her. The meeting of their lips sent sparks sizzling through the air. Eve could practically hear them crackle, feel them singe her tongue, smell their sharp, smoky discharge. With her hips touching Villanelle’s, Eve deepened the kiss. Never, not ever, would she get used to the all-consuming feeling of Villanelle setting off cataclysms inside her with every press of lips and slip of tongue. 

Eve exhaled hitched breaths that Villanelle gluttonously inhaled. She fisted her hands into Eve’s hair and drew her own thigh up tight against Eve’s. She swallowed, her throat working so hard that Villanelle certainly noticed. There was no reprieve from her insistent, forceful kisses. 

Then Villanelle reached down between Eve’s legs and slowly rubbed her hand up and down the length of Eve’s cunt. 

A long, deep, loud moan shuddered from Eve. No conscious thought, no intent, no premeditation or deliberation; just the motion of Eve rolling over, taking Villanelle with her, letting her legs part to give Villanelle better access. Her palm pressed down as she slid her hand back up, then her fingers lightly circled Eve’s clit through her pants. Eve knew that they were already soaked at the crotch, but that was better, that was _amazing,_ because Villanelle smoothed Eve’s own wetness onto her readily slickened folds. 

Eve whimpered when Villanelle drew her hand away. As soon as Villanelle had frantically removed her clothes, Eve slammed herself into another feverish kiss. Her hands roved the length of Villanelle’s flanks, cupped her elegant bra and roughly kneaded her nipples through the lace, then flowed down to slip just underneath the hem of her glistening thong. She mirrored Villanelle’s stroking fingers as best as she could, dragging and rubbing and pressing and rubbing some more. 

Villanelle pushed her back down. Eve struggled momentarily, wanting to do everything, just fucking _everything_ , all at once. But Villanelle swooped her mouth onto the right side of Eve’s neck, kissing, biting, licking from her pulse point down to her collarbone. With a raspy sigh, Villanelle tugged Eve’s clothes off. 

She slowly slunk back down, her muscled arms framing Eve’s face, and resumed kissing her. Eve deliberately responded softly, delicately, like a sparrow’s fluttering wings, lingering against Villanelle’s mouth just long enough that she could inhale her breath, feel the warmth of her skin, and taste the thick, exhilarating, desire that captured them. 

Villanelle hungrily pushed back, her mouth open, tongue shoving past Eve’s clenched teeth, seeking the moist space within. Eve gripped the nape of her neck firmly, as if Villanelle would somehow escape, as if she somehow _wanted_ to escape. It felt like Eve had soared out of her own body, like she did not occupy a corporeal realm anymore and instead floated in another universe. 

It was Villanelle’s touch, Villanelle’s hot, quick breaths, Villanelle’s faintest whispers, that kept Eve grounded in the moment. She grasped Villanelle’s free hand abruptly and brought it to her mouth. Villanelle flicked her hair aside and observed with an arched eyebrow while Eve sucked on each of her long, slender fingers. She moaned slightly as Eve pulled the longest one into her throat, hoping to convey the thrill of lifeblood that surged through her veins.

With these wetted fingers, Villanelle once again devoted her touch to Eve’s scintillating cunt. A flash of amusement, a cry, a harshly drawn out breath, and Villanelle slipped a finger snugly inside Eve. 

Wonder, awe, and a jolt of searing heat ripped through her. Mouth agape, eyes wide, she basked in the sight of Villanelle sliding her finger in and out, in and out, in and out. The repeated pressure, set to an unwavering, maddeningly lax rhythm, made her teeth grind. Villanelle never once looked away from Eve’s face. Her eyes burned, flaring at every twitch in Eve’s face and jerk of her leg. Villanelle kissed Eve’s inner thighs reassuringly while she added another finger. 

Both were buried knuckle deep now. Eve’s moan went on and on. A great weight settled onto her chest, pooled deep in her gut. The sweat beading on her brow and the sweet strain in her muscles signaled that she would soon be hurled over the horizon of ecstatic pleasure. Her heart slammed ferociously against her ribs and her pulse quickened to a breathtaking pace when she felt Villanelle’s fingers curl deep, deep inside. 

The fingers of her other hand lazily walked up her thigh and came upon Eve’s swollen, aching, and throbbing clit. A pinch. A flick. A feather light rub, followed by a sudden, heavy press. And then both sets of Villanelle’s fingers increased their pace and strength. Eve cried out, let her head fall back momentarily, grasped Villanelle’s hair, adjusted the angle of her spine so that she could spread her legs wider and wider, wide enough to let Villanelle push her fingers in even _deeper_ , while her other fingers circled Eve’s clit incessantly. 

Eve growled in pure frustration, gathering a fistful of dampened sheets. This was exactly like her own midnight masturbatory sessions, except for every single one of the reasons that it wasn’t, mainly because she was finally feeling _Villanelle’s_ fingers and not her own. No blood-soaked, rage fuelled, longing and needy and eviscerating fantasy her malignant mind conjured up could have ever compared to the truth of Villanelle. 

Eve seized her wrists. Villanelle stopped, tilted her head quizzically. 

“Are you alright?”

“Sorry,” panted Eve. “I’m just so used to...y’know. A penis being there.”

Villanelle reached over the side of the bed with a smirk and slid the strap-on harness to rest at her hips. She stroked the hot-pink cock slowly, lubing it, her eyes twinkling. 

“I hope you appreciate the irony of this.”

Eve laughed. “I do.”

Villanelle bent down to kiss her and Eve nearly missed, her lips a bit too far right and her nose bumping against Villanelle’s. She persisted, letting her eyes slide closed and going on feel alone. Villanelle’s smile crinkled as she maneuvered her mouth into place, tilting her head so that Eve’s lips met hers firmly and joyously at last. Villanelle breathed right into Eve’s nose each time she exhaled, which tickled her and made her giggle. This got Villanelle giggling too. As Eve pulled back sheepishly, Villanelle nibbled on her bottom lip, then kissed her intently. Eve’s eyes opened to see Villanelle’s shining bright.

She dragged the head of the cock teasingly over Eve’s entrance. Eve’s gaze flicked between it and Villanelle’s face. She watched, waited, silently prayed and begged, searched for a sign somewhere in Villanelle’s serene, carefully set expression. Eve sensed a quiet sort of determination which hid an underlying passionate resolve that boiled in Villanelle’s very bones. The thought alone of what was to come made Eve wetter than she had ever been before in her life; she choked on a breathy moan as Villanelle interlocked their fingers and kept Eve’s hands pinned firmly to the bed. 

Eve felt the heat between their bodies, the airy material of their lingerie, as they scraped against each other. 

“Ready?” Villanelle murmured at last, breath hot against Eve’s ear. 

“God yes,” replied Eve. 

Transfixed, she watched Villanelle’s hips roll forward like waves rolling onto a shore. She sheathed herself in Eve and remained there for a long moment. Eve threw her head back. The bulbous light, the ceiling, the comforting warmth of baking, the shift of the mildly creaky bed; all of this, all of this, was as familiar to her as the sensation of being filled by the shaft. It even felt like actual skin and nerve endings. But it was thicker, slicker, and warmer than the real thing, not to mention that it was being wielded by a _woman._  

A stir of discrepancy furrowed Eve’s brow. It was a _good_ feeling, for sure. It was just that she needed to get used to Villanelle being a woman, a _real_ woman, so Eve let her hands roam freely over Villanelle’s stomach, to graze against her stab wound scar then reach behind to undo her bra clasp; she absolutely had to take advantage of Villanelle’s statuesque stillness in order to wrap her lips around Villanelle’s perky nipples, to suck and lick them to aching fullness, to hear the buzz of Villanelle’s moan against the crown of her head and feel Villanelle breathe into her hair. 

She responded in kind, pinning Eve’s hands again while she assaulted the sides of her neck once more with wet kisses and chased her lingering breath on Eve’s nipples with her mouth and tongue. Ever so slightly possessively, Villanelle extracted the cock and then slid it back in. Eve’s half moan, half whimper urged her to repeat the movement, this time more firmly. She stopped again, buried all the way to the hilt. Then she abruptly pulled out completely, poised at Eve’s dripping entrance. 

It took massive effort for Eve not to crush Villanelle’s body against her own. Bits of begging fell from Eve’s lips, which made Villanelle grin sadistically. Through delirium, Eve tilted her hips off the bed. She hoped to meet at least the cock head, to put a little pressure on herself, to get a little friction. Anything, anything to let herself be impaled. But Villanelle resolutely denied her for a moment more. Her head was angled in such a way that her hair spilled over all to one side, her lips curving into a self-satisfied, knowing smile, her eyes dancing with embers. 

Finally, oh finally, Villanelle graciously plunged back into Eve. 

This time, she barely allowed Eve time to adjust to the feeling before more thrusts followed. More and more, an unbroken flow of exquisitely timed and tempered thrusts, striking at just the right angle and with completely enough force to make Eve moan and swear and gasp and shout and yelp and instinctually switch to Korean, and then back to English again when Korean suddenly wasn’t enough to keep screaming in. 

Villanelle’s own desperate sounds made Eve’s heart pang. She remembered how she’d sounded that night in Rome of course, but now Villanelle’s drawn out moans and short gasps were more heated, more intense, more enveloping, and decidedly much louder. Eve knew that each and every thrust resulted in the other end of the strap-on reverberating inside Villanelle’s cunt too, sliding deeper into her own wet heat, and hitting hard against her clit. 

A sheen of sweat gathered on Villanelle’s abdomen, as well as her shoulders. Her back rippled with strength as she carved deeper motions into Eve. The pace Villanelle set now was relentless and brutal. It made Eve incoherent. Nothing else felt real beyond Villanelle’s cock, the feel of her hands covering her breasts, the musky, intoxicating scent of her, the deep, consuming kisses that she bestowed, the gift of her savage, ruthless strokes. 

When Villanelle broke their kiss, Eve pulled the name from the depths of her soul.

_“Oksana.”_

She stopped mid-thrust. Her upper arms trembled. Her bottom lip quivered. Eve brushed a thumb against it and drank in the sight of Villanelle’s eyes briefly sliding closed. Her expression was shattered yet also seemed strangely distant, as if her spirit had tugged itself loose from her body to momentarily preside over them. Then Villanelle returned to herself with a deep sigh as Eve cupped the side of her face. Leaning into the touch, Villanelle penetrated Eve again. 

The deep, consistent thrusts were slower now but just as steady. Villanelle wrapped her hands around Eve’s throat and lovingly tightened her grip. She kept herself anchored like this, Eve noticed, as she suddenly picked up the pace again. Faster, harder, deeper, over and over, Villanelle pushed and drove and plunged into Eve with cries that sounded like they made her throat raw. 

Eve came with all the force of an axe splitting the back of her skull. She shouted an endless litany into Villanelle’s shoulder, into the strands of delicate hair gathered there. Villanelle kissed her through the aftershocks but quickly slipped off the strap-on as soon as Eve was capable of proper speech. 

“It is your turn now.”

A cold frisson ran up and down Eve’s spine while the rest of her burned like a pyre. 

“Okay. Are you sure you want me to try? I-I’ve never done this before.” Eve twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “I can’t do what you do. I’m afraid I won’t be good enough.”

Villanelle crossed her arms. “Bullshit.”

“Seriously, Villanelle.” Eve gingerly accepted the strap-on and re-laced it so that she could cautiously pull it into position. “I’m so, so afraid I’ll disappoint you and then you’ll...you’ll leave me or something. Oh, this looks ridiculous on me,” Eve groaned. 

Villanelle gently put a finger to Eve’s lips. “No. You are thinking too much. Which should really not be possible considering what I just did to you, but you never cease to amaze me, Eve.” She let her voice grow huskier, raised Eve’s chin to regard her inescapable gaze. “So amaze me, Eve.”

“Believe me Villanelle, I want to. I just don’t quite know how and it’s killing me.”

“Practice makes perfect. But let me take care of being perfect Eve,” said Villanelle. “You just take care of being yourself.”

Her eyes drifted down to the shining strap-on, coated on both ends with evidence of their mutual pleasure, as she leaned back sensually and slowly spread herself wide open. Eve swallowed hard. Reverently, she bowed her head down between Villanelle’s legs and lingered there. The movement caused Eve’s end of the strap-on to thud sturdily inside her and she gasped. Her hot breath against Villanelle’s soaked cunt made Villanelle gasp too. 

Wordlessly, she entwined a hand into Eve’s hair and pulled it aside. Eve didn’t break eye contact as she let herself taste Villanelle. The shock of the sensation gave her pause; she’d expected Villanelle to be very wet and maybe a little salty. But she hadn't foreseen that Villanelle could also be syrupy, lightly sweet as well, even with an almost spicy hint that was sharp on Eve’s tongue. Slick and slightly thicker than water, Eve coated her lips and her chin with Villanelle’s flavour. 

Maybe she didn’t need to use the strap on after all; Eve felt it poke against the mattress as she vigorously licked up and down, flicked her tongue against Villanelle’s engorged clit, then firmed her tongue to dip it inside Villanelle’s leaking folds. She mewled, clawed at Eve’s shoulders, gasped and moaned with need. Drawing her long, sleek legs up higher, Villanelle cried out:

“Please Eve, I need you inside me.”

Eve let Villanelle kiss her mouth clean, let Villanelle lick along her jawline to revel in the traces of herself. Eve pushed two fingers deep within Villanelle. Her ragged _please, Eve, please_ made Eve tremble. She alternated between clumsily inserting and withdrawing sticky, shaking fingers. As her thumb circled Villanelle’s clit violently, Eve felt Villanelle grasp the strap-on to jerk her forward. 

Eve braced herself on her elbows and cautiously entered Villanelle. The first few thrusts were awkward, pitched harshly too far in or not quite all the way in. In her nervousness, Eve accidentally pulled the cock all the way out. She hastily grasped its base and guided herself back inside. Villanelle moaned at the same time as Eve exhaled a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

Watching Villanelle like this, unguarded and wanton and simply exposed, Eve felt unmistakable, rousing, potent power possess her entire being. Seeing the cock plunging repeatedly into Villanelle, feeling its pleasurable shocks inside herself, thrusting and thrusting with Villanelle’s every mounting cry, Eve finally understood what it meant to join their bodies together like this, to become one.

Villanelle abruptly stilled Eve, tugged her back out, and flopped onto her stomach. She balanced on her knees and peered suggestively over her shoulder at Eve. With quaking hands, Eve gripped Villanelle’s hips and thrust into her. And thrust into her again, and again, and then again. She draped herself over Villanelle’s back, trailing kisses along her spine all the way up to the nape of her neck. Villanelle craned her head around to kiss Eve. She brushed aside the hair that tangled and matted between their mouths, then fused their lips together again. 

Eve grunted as Villanelle rocked her hips and eased herself backwards, shoving the cock deeper inside. They traded off, with Eve thrusting right after Villanelle impaled herself. Eve was alarmed at not being able to see Villanelle’s face, to revel in her vulnerability, but the sounds Villanelle made were indicative enough for her to know how well she was doing. 

As Eve approached a more pounding rhythm, her arms quivering, her thighs shaking, her heart just about ready to explode, she grabbed Villanelle’s long hair and firmly pulled it back, back, back until Villanelle’s gaze was level with her own reflection in the mirror that leaned across from the bed.

“Watch.” 

They hungrily absorbed their own reflections. Eve’s eyes were wild, locked with Villanelle’s scorching gaze. Mouths agape, gasps strong enough to fog the mirror’s glass, half-broken swears and triumphant words spilling from their lips, Eve and Villanelle watched each other die little cascading deaths of rebirth, swirling and tumbling together into heavenly oblivion.

* * *

In the shadow of Notre Dame, Villanelle crunched on her second Ring Pop candy of the day. 

She tried not to apply the term “mind blowing” to the way Eve had called out her name during sex. Very few things in life were really and truly _mind blowing_ (the closest she’d come to this accuracy was actually strapping a grenade to a target’s head and briskly setting it off). She also tried not to think of the sex itself as being “mind blowing”, but this was proving difficult when she couldn’t stop thinking about it two days later. 

Yesterday, she’d taken Eve to the Louvre. Eve had stared at her the whole time like she was the most precious work of art in there. Villanelle’s heart settled on asking her a very, very important question then. But she still needed to figure out how to ask properly. So Villanelle had said something stupid instead, something about feeling like Lady Liberty in Delacroix’s famous revolutionary painting. Eve had laughed and kissed Villanelle right in front of the statue of Psyche being revived by Cupid’s kiss.

Today, Villanelle pretended to be a nun so that she could get close to the Archbishop of Notre Dame, who was also a Keeper that spent a whole lot of time on his iPhone using Twitter and fidgeting with his silver USB. Villanelle’s black habit and veil were rented from one of the sex shops in Montmartre, which explained the habit’s shorter length, the exaggerated white cross emblazoned across her cleavage, and the fact that the sash keeping the costume together was made of fine silk instead of a more humble material. Nevertheless, Villanelle was certain that the long and burly rosary hanging around her neck would be useful once she found the Keeper. 

Villanelle hummed and chewed the candy all the way down to its coral-coloured plastic ring, cracked the cherry-flavoured shards in her mouth, and gleefully swallowed their shattered remains. She took out the other Ring Pop from the pocket of her habit, compared its blue plastic ring to her own, then carefully returned them both. 

Eve had refused the candy in favour of lighting another cigarette. She tucked the lighter away in the pocket of her cardigan, sucked a delighted drag, and blew a thick cloud of smoke at Villanelle. 

“I can’t believe you went to morning and afternoon mass wearing that,” Eve remarked.   
  
“Shhh.” Villanelle swatted the smoke away, clasped her hands together, and closed her eyes. “Do not interrupt me, Eve.”

“Why?”  
  
“I am praying.”  
  
“Oh so I’m distracting you from your job, am I?”

“Maybe.” Villanelle opened one eye. “One more USB and we will be halfway done with Carolyn’s operation.” 

Eve nodded and flicked some ashes away. “And after?”

“We’ll have the rest of our lives to figure it all out, Eve. I hope it’s going to be for the rest of our lives.”   
  
Notre Dame’s bell tolled six times to herald the fall of dusk. The Seine river shimmered and reflected the grey sky, the trees that lined the banks, the sleek cruise ships that split its waters, the traffic and the clusters of people that crossed the elegant bridges. Villanelle had jogged alongside the Seine countless times and it never failed to bring her a feeling that she could identify most closely with peace. 

Eve was very much like the Seine: unrushed, gently flowing, reflective, at times stormy and polluted by doubt, but always astonishing in her depth and cunning with her ability to curve around or cascade past obstacles. Villanelle stole a quick glance at her and then stood up warily. 

“I will go find this Archbishop before he begins evening mass. Watch my back?”

“Of course.” 

A hush fell over Eve and Villanelle as soon as they entered the grand cathedral. The ceiling was shrouded in shadow, its oak rib vaults intersecting to brace the entire stone structure. Pools of candle light flanked both sides of the transept, while weak light filtered through the stained glass windows and waltzed across the checkered, polished floor. Rows of pews faced the golden cross at the very back of the massive room. Villanelle cut through the people milling about, some standing and others sitting. A pair of nuns caught sight of her and promptly crossed themselves. 

Eve seemed awed by the cathedral’s ominous, severe, and meticulous detail. Villanelle found it overwhelming and far too grandiose; all this work for an unresponsive, inattentive god? All this worship wasted on silence and apathy? She sniffed, being of the opinion that devotion of this sort could have been put to much better use when it was directed at real flesh and blood. Her pulse beat harder in her head and in her throat at the thought of being a sort of altar that Eve could fanatically venerate, perhaps by tearing her own heart out and presenting it as a sacred offering for Villanelle to calmly, gladly accept.   
  
The concept of Eve sacrificing time just so that she could spend it with her pleased Villanelle. She imagined Eve slashing apart hours into minutes, crushing those minutes into seconds, scattering them like jewels for Villanelle to wear as a precious necklace, until time itself bent to their will. Indeed, time seemed suspended inside Notre Dame and it was perhaps the only thing that Villanelle appreciated about it.  
  
As for history, Villanelle did not need to look beyond herself. It all began and ended with her; she was like the snake the devoured itself endlessly, and there was no room for anyone else to interrupt that cycle. Except that...there was Eve, looking up in awe; there was Eve, delicately dragging her wicked hands along the ancient wood of one of the pews; there was Eve, so very far away from the garden of Eden, wandering just a little ahead of the slithering Villanelle. She wondered what it would feel like for Eve to slice her veins open in an ardent display of devotion for Villanelle, to let them bleed into Notre Dame’s revered golden chalice just so Villanelle could quench her endless thirst. 

Regrettably, she could not know this. Even more regrettably, the Archbishop was not in the nave, nor was he brooding by the two towers that soared upwards on opposite sides of the gigantic rose window. With a sigh, Villanelle ascended the spiraling stone staircase that brought her to the Archbishop's quarters. She motioned for Eve to keep watch by the door and opened it without bothering to knock.   
  
Startled, the Archbishop looked up from his iPhone’s screen. His sallow face arranged itself into an expression of mild interest and his thin lips twisted into a cruel, simpering smile.   
  
“Oksana. I was told to expect you.” 

“How many followers do you have since the last time you checked Twitter a second ago?”

“I do not have followers. Not really.” The Archbishop set his iPhone down beside an impressively bound Bible. “I am a follower. I spread the word of Christ in anyway I can. For I follow Christ and I will be saved.” He wagged a wrinkly finger at Villanelle. “For you, I am not so sure.”

“Funny.” Villanelle eyed the letter opener conveniently within her reach. “I think you are being very narcissistic with all your social media and are in fact a huge let down to your role model. You should always practice what you preach, you know?”

“Are you here to kill me, Oksana?”

“No, that is not why I am here.” Villanelle’s lie was quick, her mind reshuffling the situation as a new idea began to take shape. “Actually, I came all this way for a confession.”

“How amusing.”

“I am serious.” Villanelle made her eyes grow wide and moist, forced a strained warble into her voice. “I have done bad things to good people. I have done bad things for a good reason.” 

“Your soul is bent against itself,” the Archbishop said. “You will go to Hell, as all demons do.”

“How do you know that? Do you have a direct hotline to God or something?” 

“You are doomed.”

Villanelle snorted. “I’ve heard that before. Is there no hope for me to be redeemed at all?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Oh well!” 

Villanelle removed her rosary. She extended it to the Archbishop. When he reached for it, Villanelle looped it around his neck blindingly fast. She tugged, pulled, stretched the beads until they dug into his neck. His skin reddened, then turned plum purple. He thrashed and gagged. Eventually, he stilled and slumped in his wooden chair. Villanelle rummaged around his vestments and claimed her silver prize. She also snatched the letter opener as a souvenir. 

Eve was leaning against the wall, pretending not to have listened in on the conversation. She was cute when she was flustered and innocent-like and focused, thought Villanelle. Instead of going back downstairs, Villanelle led Eve higher and higher on the pretense that she needed to regain composure after the kill. They climbed the staircase past the timber vaulted ceilings that were below creaking walkways and ended up in the attic with its wooden framing. A single, smaller rose window offered them a view of Notre Dame’s lead protected roof and the towering oak spire. 

It was quiet here and it smelled calm. Villanelle’s breath caught in her throat as she watched Eve peer out the window. Villanelle felt as though they were balancing on the precipice of something, as though the only edges of her memory were those of her body defining itself against Eve’s, because the rest hurt too much to keep, for reasons they did not know how to know yet. 

Villanelle glanced down at the plastic ring resting on her finger and solemnly wondered if she was brave enough to hunt for what she wanted. Then Eve looked over at her, eyes deep and dark and wholly accepting. Villanelle reached inside her habit and went down on one knee to proffer this plastic ring.

“Marry me?”

Remarkably, Eve wore an unreadable expression. She was motionless until she made some half-hearted attempt to reach for another cigarette but thought better of it and went back to being absolutely still. 

“I...I-I’m already married.”

“Your husband left you.”

“I wouldn’t be a very good wife.”

“Try me.”

“You’d get bored.”

“No.”

Villanelle kept her voice and her hands steady. She could wait Eve out, outlast all the weak excuses she might possibly offer. It seemed as if Eve did not even believe them herself, judging by the tremor in her voice. Maybe it was just from the height of the attic, but Villanelle noticed a distinct lack of oxygen the longer that Eve remained silent. Instead of answering, Eve took the plastic ring from Villanelle with shaking hands and slowly slipped it onto her ring finger. 

Its wide, plastic brim covered Eve’s faded wedding band. Villanelle kissed the back of Eve’s hand tenderly. Immediately, that hand found its way into Villanelle’s hair and seemingly moved fervently of its own accord. Villanelle reached over to touch Eve, to find that boundary that made her body undeniably real and made the experience that occupied it real, in the only way Villanelle could understand. 

Eve helped her stand. She welcomed the curve of Villanelle’s face like hunger. They kissed with a craving that burned the back of Villanelle’s throat. So fierce was Villanelle’s elation that she got out the letter opener and decisively sliced a thin, shallow cut across her palm. She did the same to Eve’s palm, ignoring her string of mixed-language expletives. Then Villanelle pressed their palms together hard and intertwined their fingers until blood dipped to the wooden floor.

“Eve, I am sorry that I cannot give you a real ring now. I know it is not perfect-”

“No, it totally is,” whispered Eve.

“-but when this is all over, I promise I will get you a proper ring and we won’t have to be afraid of anything anymore, because everything will be right again. We will make it right. Together.”

“Amen.”

Villanelle grinned. “I do not have many words for you, Eve. I have never done this before, so I am worried to disappoint you. I think you know more about making wedding vows than I do. But without fanciness, I want to vow that I will protect and care for you, just as I do for myself. I promise to be here for you through all times, even if you are sick from not drying your hair properly or you are grumpy because you haven't had your morning coffee yet. I promise to be here for you to make you happy, because then you will make me happier. I promise to appreciate you and to think about your feelings sometimes, although I will think about you always because you have not left my mind ever since you got here. Most of all, I promise to be yours forever, just as you are mine, until death do us part.”

Eve’s eyes brimmed with tears. Villanelle’s first instinct was terror and revulsion, but Eve smiled and it instantly unclenched her heart.

“Villanelle, there is nothing in this world that I wouldn’t do for you. Although you really can be such an asshole sometimes...but that’s the point: I promise to protect you, even if it’s from yourself. I promise to stand by your side, always. I promise to always tell you what I’m thinking and how I’m feeling. I promise to make you feel cared for, to make you feel adored, to make you feel real, and to make you feel mine. Because yeah, I am yours. Forever. I would kill and die for you, Villanelle.”

It was almost perfect, Villanelle thought. Maybe even too perfect. But whatever shadow passed over her heart was quickly chased away by Eve’s ardent kiss. With their lips fused, Villanelle reached inside the pocket of Eve’s cardigan and removed the lighter.

“Consider this my wedding gift to you,” murmured Villanelle, and touched the lighter’s flame to the bone-dry wood of the support beams and arches. 

The attic soon filled with thick smoke. By the time Eve and Villanelle reached the ground floor, its unmistakable smell pervaded the entire transept. The stone vaulted ceiling would char, as would the statues, gargoyles, and chimeras who perched on the stone walls of Notre Dame, before the alarm sounded for the fire brigade. By the time Eve and Villanelle pushed through crowds of people gathering on the bridges and along the avenue, the timber trusses were burned all the way through, and the lead protecting Notre Dame’s roof was made molten by the merciless heat of the great flame that crested much higher above the central rose window. 

From the safety of the apartment balcony, Eve and Villanelle watched the inferno rise between the two main towers. The wrathful and disordered flames were fed by wind. They roared into whirlwinds that devoured Notre Dame’s entire roof. Eating away at centuries, the ravaging fire birthed a vast curtain of dark grey smoke that billowed across the sky and blurred Paris’ skyline. Angry red and orange bursting flames pierced the accumulated gloom from the smoke, which spread wider and wider until it seemed to block out the pale gold sky itself. 

Sirens wailed. People screamed. Birds fled. The air shook with fury. Notre Dame’s spire groaned agonizingly and crumbled in a thunderous column of smoke and sparks. 

Eve and Villanelle kissed in the language of ashes, their future looming without promise and formless like smoke. Wisps of it curled through the thick, hazy air as if excited to be carried across Paris so swiftly. Villanelle tasted and smelled how acrid it was, but somehow, with Eve in her arms, the distant flames and the pall of smoke were the destined backdrop against which she conquered Eve. 

Villanelle’s bleeding hand streaked across Eve’s hot, naked skin. In turn, Eve left bloody hand prints on Villanelle’s breasts, stomach, and the sides of her face. She licked the crimson trickling down Villanelle’s arm, tracing the pathways of her burning veins with a born hedonist's tongue. Villanelle moaned roughly into Eve’s mouth.

As if fueled by the feral fire, Villanelle half-straddled Eve’s hips and began to grind against her drenched cunt. She held one of Eve’s legs up and kept the other to the side so that she could rub onto Eve. Her faltering cry was cut off by a quick gasp, then a moan that kept ringing in Villanelle’s ears as she pressed her throbbing clit to Eve’s. She dragged her hips through slow, deliberate movements that reduced Eve to a needy, feeble mess. Her face was caught between the tides of pain and rapture, her eyes ablaze with delicious emotion that made Villanelle want to die from the intensity alone. 

Eve’s hips bucked when Villanelle’s grinding quickened and she pressed down harder. Villanelle gritted her teeth. Her back and shoulder muscles, as well as her thighs, began to cramp and sear with warning. Panting, soaking, quaking, Villanelle sat down facing Eve and dragged them as close as they could comfortably get without entirely hindering their space to move. They kissed passionately, lost in the inferno between them.

Villanelle opened her eyes to take in Eve’s stunned expression when Villanelle rubbed insistently between her thighs and commanded Eve to mirror her. Villanelle welcomed Eve’s raw, rough fingers inside even as she slipped her own into Eve. Their gasps and moans mingled between searing strokes. Villanelle gave herself over to Eve’s touch, basked in her ecstasy, and felt her own euphoria unfurling as high as the clouds of smoke while Norte Dame, blackened and wounded, went up in flames. 


	9. Remember Me?

The grainy drawn gathered in the form of a misted expanse of light breaking over the rooftops. Eve stretched and turned over to the right side of the bed. Her breath caught in her throat when she opened her eyes. She didn’t mean to scrutinize Villanelle’s sleeping form quite so closely, but she just couldn’t help it. 

Villanelle rested on her back. Her long hair cascaded in sheaves of gold against the white pillow. Her soft face was painted in a vague ridge of shadows and dawn blush. Eve had never seen her look so peaceful, so utterly unguarded. It was a moment of pure honesty.  
  
Eve’s heart thudded loudly in a rhythm of awe. She listened to a river, a symphony of Villanelle’s steady breathing. She truly looked like an angel dropped right from heaven into bed beside Eve. With a smile, Eve locked this perfect memory in her mind and heart. 

A soreness flared between her legs as she shifted beneath the thin covers. Her sliced palm still stung, although the pain was milder now that it had been treated with gauze. Eve peered underneath it, flexed her fingers. She was bewitched by the thin, leaking line that cut across the expanse of warm skin, spellbound by the flaring tissue that rippled just below the shallow surface. She could think of no better symbol of her union to Villanelle.

The coppery scent of the slit was lost to the heavy stench of smoke that pervaded the apartment. Not even the opened windows were enough to air out the space; if the sky wasn’t ashen, the sun would have been spilling past Villanelle’s hips and slanting right across her face. A breeze lifted the curtains. Eve watched them being flung forward, as though they were reaching for something important, something unrecoverable. 

As the curtain lifted again, Eve squinted in the direction of the closest sloping grey rooftop. Something flashed. Eve rubbed her eyes, thinking that the veil of sleep still clouded her vision. But no, there was definitely a flash there. Some sort of glint of light, discernable thanks to the manageable distance between the window and the rooftop. 

Scowling, Eve glanced over at Villanelle. Her face was still serene with repose, the rise and fall of her chest nothing but tranquil. Eve looked at the window again, saw the curtains hovering again, concentrated on identifying that damn glint again. She whipped her head back to Villanelle’s face, caught a small, red dot sliding onto her cheek-

Eve lunged forward, taking the sheets  and covers and Villanelle over the edge of the bed as a bullet whizzed past their heads and buried itself in the mattress. 

Villanelle flailed, shouted, clawed at the sheets to disentangle herself. But Eve kept her head pinned down.   

“Eve! What the _fuck_ is going on?” 

“‘Thank you for saving my life, Eve,’” panted Eve. “‘Oh don’t mention it Villanelle, I dodge snipers all the time-’”  
  
Villanelle’s elbow jabbed Eve in the ribs as she flattened herself to the floor. Eve adopted the same position. They lay there, naked on the dusty wooden boards, straining to hear anything, anything at all besides tense silence. Blindly, Eve’s hand darted up to where the bullet was lodged in the mattress. She frantically felt for its hard, hot casing, and yelped victoriously as her fingers clenched around it. 

Eve’s eyes darted around the room. Both windows offered the sniper deadly lines of sight. The kitchenette stretched too far away from their huddled position by the bed. And that left only the door which led to the front hallway, but that door was directly across from the other window. 

“Do you have a plan Kill Commander?”

“Uh, yes. It’s called Don’t Die.”

“Okay. Do you maybe have a Plan B?” 

“Don’t Die Badly?”  
  
Villanelle squirmed her haunches apart from Eve’s. She raised herself onto her elbows and peered a bit past the end of the bed. 

“Grab my pillow, Eve.”

She obeyed. Villanelle’s soft scent lingered on it. 

“Merci.”

Villanelle held the pillow at one corner. Eve witnessed her body transform. Her spine elongated. The line of her became sleeker, sharper, like a switchblade sprung free. Eve felt herself vibrate with the same energy, contaminated and animated.  

“Be ready, Eve. I am going to close this window, and you are going to run downstairs. Okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”  
  
“I’ll be right behind you. But do not be stupid and wait. Just run."

“Okay.”

With her heart lodged in her throat, Eve watched Villanelle suddenly dangle the pillow past the bedside. Another bullet ripped through it. In the time it took the sniper to reload, Villanelle scrambled to the window and slammed its shutters closed. 

Eve sprang to her feet and retreated into the hallway. On her way out the door, she grabbed the Chanel bags and took the stairs two at a time. A few moments later, Villanelle joined her. They dressed themselves in the foyer of the apartment building. Eve’s ensemble was a silk, champagne-coloured blouse that had a neck tie, and she hastily pulled on a pair of soft suede, high-rise pants. Villanelle chose a black chiffon jumpsuit that still retained a flamboyant touch thanks to its ruffles that artfully draped off the right shoulder. 

“Did you see who it was?” asked Eve.  
  
“Someone short. Shorter than you, even.”

“You didn’t see a face?”

Villanelle shook her head. “They had a veil on.” 

“Great.” Eve squinted out the front window. “Where will we go now?”

Villanelle tied her hair up while she thought.  
  
“Konstantin has a safehouse here in Paris.” 

“You want to stay in Paris?”  
  
“Um, yeah. It is the perfect place for our honeymoon. We can’t let little things like this interrupt our fun, Eve.”

“We can’t just walk around the streets either. We’ll get shot as soon as we set foot outside.”

“Then we will take the metro. There is a station near here.”

Villanelle smuggled them out the side entrance that her old landlady had used to accept grocery deliveries and mail. The graffiti covered and garbage strewn alleyway provided them a brief reprieve from the rooftop where the sniper was. Eve still kept glancing behind and above them as they tore down the stretch of avenues that led to Montmarte’s art nouveau inspired metro station.

Its green stairs descended Eve and Villanelle into the bowels of the earth, where the temperature was instantly cooler. The recycled air seemed to wrap itself around Eve’s throat and squeeze unscrupulously as she paced the platform. Bright tube lights bathed the tunnel in a pleasant glow. Watercolour murals of poppies, the French countryside, and the Eiffel Tower covered the walls. Eve caught her own distorted reflection as she glanced up at the tunnel’s concave metal roof. 

With a pneumatic sigh, the blue and white train expelled its slightly disoriented passengers. Eve followed Villanelle into a mostly empty carriage. Many of the plush seats were folded up and the half-dozen passengers that occupied it were absorbed with their digital devices or napping against the windows. 

Villanelle sat down and arranged her face into an expression of composure. Eve lowered the Chanel bags beside her and plunked her trusty handbag into her lap. The train doors closed. A quirky jingle was followed by an announcement delivered by a supremely bored voice. 

“Paris is still having transportation strikes,” translated Villanelle. “Metro, buses, taxis, planes.” She tapped her finger against Eve’s handbag. “You should replace this with something that actually suits you.”

Eve reached into one of the Chanel bags. Her plastic ring caught on the zipper of the first item she grasped: a blue tweed, metallic embossed clutch with a liquid silver chain. It evoked an evening best spent sipping refreshing martinis while gazing down at the twinkling city lights from the top floor of a disastrously fancy penthouse.

Her second attempt produced a black and gold, python skin handbag which had enough space to accommodate transferring the iPad, the two burner phones, and the rest of Eve’s amenities. Eventually, she discarded her old handbag on the seat as she exited the train in Villanelle’s wake. 

Konstantin’s safehouse was located in Paris’ sixteenth arrondissement. The buildings there were mostly stately apartments with off-white, smooth facades and chic shops occupying the floors at street level. Some swirly wrought iron balconies had baskets of flowers hanging off them. Thick curtains of apartments higher up concealed the elegant, exclusive world within. Eve noticed that many foreign embassies were situated around the neighbourhood.  

A long line of cars was parked in front of Konstantin’s building. Eve and Villanelle skirted around flower pots and vases as they approached the glass door. Villanelle keyed in the entrance code (probably something that added up to the sum of twelve), Eve nervously clutched her new handbag, and they silently looked at each other as the elevator whisked them to the uppermost floors. 

They entered the safehouse. Eve hung her handbag by the door  and was immediately struck by the fact that the term “safehouse” was surely ironic. Konstantin was apparently a man of grand, modern taste, judging by the size of the place and its decadent furnishings. The grey pull out couch had rich, dark rosewood armrests that matched the main table, several voodoo masks lined the hallway leading to the bedroom, and the kitchen’s white marble countertops dared the chef not to spill a single drop on them. 

Villanelle immediately checked the fridge. Eve peered over her shoulder and chuckled.

“There’s lots of good stuff in there.”

“Of course. Konstantin is fat so he must eat well.”

Villanelle shoved some bottles of vodka aside. Eve plugged in the iPad to charge and placed one of the burner phones beside it.

“I’m going to go shower,” she announced. 

“You are not hungry?” Villanelle glanced up from the knife she’d taken from its maple holder, thoughtfully running her forefinger along the flat of the blade.

“Not really. Danger doesn’t agree with my appetite, apparently.”

Villanelle lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then you’d better go quickly to shower, because I hear that the kitchen is the most dangerous place in a domestic arrangement.”

Eve laughed all the way to the bathroom. In the shower, she found herself reflecting on how _nice_ this domestic arrangement with Villanelle was. They’d actually built a familiarity between them, a tacit comfort that allowed them to peak into each other’s personal space. As Eve shampooed her hair, she grinned at the thought that now she knew exactly what Villanelle had for breakfast. And Villanelle now knew exactly which clothes fit Eve like a second skin, knew how Eve liked her coffee and when she preferred tea instead, knew that she never minded when Villanelle dozed on her shoulder.

The soap thudded between Eve’s feet at the sound of the bathroom door opening. She squealed when Villanelle suddenly shoved the curtains aside and stepped into the shower. Her soaked hair darkened, her smooth skin shone, her face glowed as the water sprinkled over it, and her body splashed against Eve’s as she put her arms around Eve’s neck to give her a kiss dripping with piety. 

Eve clutched the back of Villanelle’s head and kissed her even harder. The travertine shower walls echoed with their heavy breathing, then seemed to quake with the force of Villanelle’s moans when Eve dipped her head and laved Villanelle’s nipples with her tongue. 

“Fuck, oh _fuck_ Eve-” Villanelle exclaimed throatily. She fisted her hands in Eve’s hair when Eve slipped two fingers inside her drenched cunt. “I will remember that danger just enhances your sex drive.”

Water drizzled all over their bodies. It clung to their every curve and the swell of their breasts, as well as each strand of hair sticking to their gleaming skin. Eve lay her forehead at the crook of Villanelle’s shoulder as she thrust her fingers between Eve’s legs, probing, teasingly rubbing, stretching, filling. Eve felt dizzy from the heat of the steamy water, Villanelle’s torrid proximity, and the heady rush of victory that  came from the fact that they were both still _alive._

As Eve anointed Villanelle’s chest, stomach, and back with coconut scented body wash, she drank in Villanelle’s affectionate expression. Drops sprayed around them. Villanelle teased Eve’s hair into a shampooey mohawk and they both dissolved into giggles. When Eve almost slipped on the soap, Villanelle steadied her.  
  
“Careful. Dying in the shower would be so anti-climatic, don’t you think?”   
  
Eve smiled into the kiss. She kept her eyes open for long enough to catch Villanelle’s eyes flicker closed and to see her expression melt into exquisite, aching abandon, before Eve relented with a deep sigh. The press of their sloppy, hot, wet mouths rippled right down to Eve’s core. She took Villanelle’s hands and pressed them against the wall; she took Villanelle’s bottom lip between her teeth and tugged it until Villanelle keened; she took the pulsing breaths that raced under the surface of the sensitive skin of Villanelle’s throat; she took the force of Villanelle’s grinding hips and adjusted her own to be flush against Villanelle’s; she took Villanelle’s rain of kisses, over and over, tenacious and delicious and spellbinding; and when Villanelle cupped Eve’s chin to bathe her in a breathtakingly intense gaze, to drown Eve in emotion, Eve took that too.       

After they’d showered, Villanelle switched on the television. Notre Dame’s burning was all anyone talked about. In between mouthfuls of eggs benedict, Eve watch the repeated footage of the roaring fire. She recalled exactly how deep Villanelle’s fingers had been buried while Notre Dame’s rose windows shattered; she remembered how, with a shaky whisper, Villanelle had begged to feel Eve’s slow, possessive strokes between her trembling thighs; and she reminisced about the creativity and precision of Villanelle’s licking and lapping tongue. 

Eve had slung her arm comfortably around Villanelle’s shoulders. She shifted now, flipped through channels that scattered images of smokey, crumbling buttresses and beams, columns of embers, blackened marble tiles, and crowds of distressed, devastated people. 

“Yeah, yeah, it is all very tragic and super horrible, all that history and culture lost, blah blah blah.” Villanelle muted the television. “You want to watch a movie?”

“Sure, why not.”

It took some time for Eve to work up to it, but she begrudgingly picked both volumes of Kill Bill to start with. Villanelle clapped her hands every time the blonde assassin exacted her revenge, no doubt delighted that she was seeing her own archetype play out on screen. Then Villanelle insisted that they kept on watching movies, so Eve decided on The Professional and Natural Born Killers Next. She studied Villanelle carefully, noted her salaciousness and euphoria at the violence playing out on screen. The depraved shine in her eyes as she soaked in the blood and brutality quickened Eve’s heart. She was half out of her seat during certain scenes, hardly containing her snickers and excited commentary, pulling Eve deeper into her reckless release. 

Unexpectedly, Villanelle insisted on holding Eve’s hand during the entirety of Thelma and Louise. The movie seemed to sedate Villanelle slightly. She nodded along as if she perfectly understood the predicament of viciously road tripping out of a failed marriage and refrained from her usual caustic remarks. Eve let Villanelle conclude their movie marathon by choosing Ratatouille. And it was this one that swept Eve away into an ocean of tenderness: Villanelle rested her head on Eve’s shoulder as her fingers instinctively twined around Eve’s curls, while Eve found herself gently stroking Villanelle’s head and sighing contentedly as they watched the adorable animated rat aspiring to be a chef. 

Paris glowed in cherry, joyful colours on the television. Awash with rustic gradients and a palette of hopefulness and acceptance, the film seemed to inspire Villanelle. She leapt off the couch as soon as the credits rolled. Plates clattered in the kitchen. Utensils and ingredients scattered across the entire surface of the counter. Villanelle chopped potatoes and onions, stirred sauce and ground beef, and pre-heated the oven until Konstantin’s entire place was toasty. 

In the meantime, Eve decided to concentrate on researching the sniper bullet she’d recovered and to catch up on the final part of her coding course. She was just finishing up when Villanelle announced that the meal was ready. 

“This is the same type of bullet that was used in the Stockholm shootings,” said Eve. She placed it delicately beside the iPad and the burner phone. The bullet gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight and she eyed it warily. “Which confirms that we’re dealing with the same sniper.” 

“Okay. You are working too hard.” Villanelle rubbed Eve’s shoulders. “Let’s eat.”

Eve set the table and eagerly anticipated the dish Villanelle set down. Until she uncovered it.  
  
“I know you like Shepherd’s pie, so I made it for you!” glowed Villanelle. 

“Oh! Wow. Um, thank you.” Eve prodded the potato crust disparagingly with her fork. Villanelle scooped large spoonfuls of pie onto her plate and dug in, elbows splayed wide on the table. 

“Not to take away from your hard work or anything,” said Eve. She faltered. Rubbed the side of her nose. “I mean, I appreciate this a lot. I really do. But. Well. I don’t actually like Shepherd’s pie,” she finished with a chuckle.

Villanelle swallowed a particularly large mouthful. “Yes, you do. You like Shepherd’s pie.”

“No, no, no. I really don’t.” Eve ran a hand through her hair. “Niko made it all the damn time and I just got sick of eating it often. So no, I don’t like Shepherd’s pie. But thank you for being thoughtful, Villanelle.”

“How do you know you don’t like it if you haven’t tried mine?” asked Villanelle softly. “Try it, Eve.”

“No, thank you.”

“Just try it.”

“No.”

“Try it.”

“No!”

Villanelle slammed a spoonful of Shepherd’s pie onto Eve’s plate and smiled thinly. “You will try my pie even if I have to feed it to you myself.”

Sulking, Eve gripped her fork and stabbed the tiniest bit of Shepherd’s pie she could manage. As she put it into her mouth, she felt the familiar tang of Worcestershire sauce on her tongue. 

“How did you learn to make Shepherd's pie like this?”

Villanelle kept her eyes fixed on her plate. “I asked Niko.”

“Was this at Oxford?”

“Yes.”

Villanelle still hadn’t looked at her. Eve swallowed hard. A void opened up in her chest and howled through her.

“Villanelle,” asked Eve, her voice barely above a shaky whisper, “is Niko safe?”

“Of course he is safe, do not be ridiculous-”  
  
“Is he _safe?_ ” Eve’s voice cracked.  
  
“Yes, Eve. Niko is safe.”  
  
Images of the police officer in Lille flashed through Eve’s mind. That horrible gaping wound, his terrifying scream, all that blood and disaster and sickness-

Eve’s fork clattered against her plate. “I don’t believe you.”

“What?” 

“You’re hiding something.”

Now Villanelle’s head snapped up and she looked at Eve with distant, glazed eyes. 

“Why do you suddenly care so much about Niko?”

“I'm not officially divorced yet. Why are you keeping secrets from me?”

“To have your own secrets is healthy,” snapped Villanelle. “I am allowed my own privacy.”

“Bullshit. You know Niko’s Shepherd's pie recipe. He never gives that out to anyone. Hell, he only told me about it on our sixth wedding anniversary-”

Eve faltered. Her eyes grew watery as she gazed at her plastic ring. 

“What did you do to Niko, Villanelle?”

“Nothing.”

“What did you do?” Eve’s voice escalated to a strained about. “Did you torture him for the recipe?”

“No.”

“Or maybe you castrated him, is that it?” 

“Stop it,” Villanelle hissed. 

“Obviously you did something that you don’t want me to know. Something bad.”

“You are being a fool to your emotions, Eve. There is nothing bad going on.”

“If there’s nothing bad going on, then why are you hiding things from me? What can’t I find out?” Eve held her head in her hands. “Oh god. Oh Jesus...I am so stupid. Fuck.”

“Right now? Yes, Eve, you are being enormously stupid-”

Eve moved to stand up but Villanelle grasped her forearm. “Where are you going?”  
  
“I’m going home.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’ve got to go home.”  
  
“Eve, you can’t go home.” 

Eve wrenched her arm free. “Yes I can.”

She pushed past the dining table and grabbed her handbag so quickly that she knocked the coat hanger over. 

“Eve wait, we need to talk!”

Villanelle’s desperate, fractured voice ricocheted around in Eve’s head as she rushed out and slammed the door behind her. 

* * *

For the second time in the same month, Carolyn found herself waiting outside Helen’s office. As far as bosses went, she was usually easy to please and quite willing to let Carolyn manage herself; it was precisely why Carolyn tolerated getting out of bed every morning and taking the smelly tube to the MI6 headquarters, which also involved the considerable sacrifice of skipping out on fresh muffins and a spot of her favourite tea. God save the Queen, and all that. 

Carolyn sat with her one leg serenely crossed on top of her other knee and with her hands clasped primly in her lap. The magazines on the glass table before her were as boring as ever; she had no intention of being anything less than alert during the meeting. Carolyn glanced over at the cylinder of crisps that she’d bought to placate Helen and mildly contemplated having a few herself. Then she was invited into Helen’s office.

The wooden strips of its walls, its overstuffed book shelves, the cluttered desk, and the leafy plant greeted Carolyn. Helen wasn’t sitting in her usual white leather armchair. Instead, she was hiding behind the open office door and threw it shut behind Carolyn with a resounding bang. 

“Ah. Helen.” Carolyn turned slowly and proffered the crisps. “Would you care for some crisps?”

Helen seized the container from her. She brandished it like a weapon. “I am this close, _this fucking close_ Carolyn, to sacking you!”

“Helen, please. I am right across from you. There is no need to scream at me, I can hear you perfectly well-”

“I’m shutting down Operation Silver Vanguard!”

“Be reasonable.” Carolyn sniffed. “Please, be reasonable. Operation Silver Vanguard has in fact had many tremendous successes.”

Helen stuffed lots of crisps into her mouth. “Remind me while I put together your severance package.”

“Certainly.” Carolyn calmly ticked her fingers off one by one. “I have Konstantin in my pocket. Aaron Peel has been dealt with. We have acquired Pharaday UK. Things are progressing swimmingly with the most intricate intelligence gathering operation we’ve put together in the past decade. And oh yes, agent Eve Polastri is still alive. Which by all measures is a miracle in and of itself.”

Helen peered at Carolyn over the rim of her wire frame glasses. “What about The Twelve?”

“Right. It’s quite simple Helen, really. The more intelligence that we have, the more we’ll be able to know.”

“I want them _found,_  Carolyn.”

“Of course.”

With a sigh, Helen brushed the crumbs off her slacks and wiped her hands on her dangling scarf. “You’ve made too many mistakes lately, Carolyn.”

“To which mistakes are you referring?” she asked icily. 

“Why don’t we start with the two fuck ups you have gallivanting across Europe!” 

“Eve and Villanelle are highly trained professionals, Helen.”

“Fuck ups!” Helen accentuated her shriek by slamming her fist on the desk. Crumbs flew from her mouth. “They’ll destroy every single cathedral and monument and castle in Europe at the rate they’re going!”

“Why is it that every time something bad happens you must assume it’s them?”

“I swear to Christ, any more of that out of you and I _will_ sack you, honestly Carolyn I _will-_ ”

“I understand.” Carolyn suppressed a yawn. It was time to hurry this little comedy of errors along. “What do you want me to do?”

Helen suddenly seemed spent, as if she was a wind up doll that had no one left to rewind her. “Tell me that everything’s going according to plan.”

“Oh, it is.”

“Tell me!”

“Helen, everything is going according to plan.”

She nodded. “Very well, Carolyn. Do you know where they are now?”

“Eve attempted to use her passport in Charles de Gaulle airport approximately two hours ago. Apparently, her purchase for a plane ticket to London was declined, so I assume she is using alternative means of transportation.”

“She’s coming _here?_ ” Helen’s eyebrows shot up. “By _herself?_ Is there some way we can retroactively fail her on her MI6 psych eval?”

“I’ll look into it for you,” answered Carolyn dryly. “In the interim, may I debrief Eve personally? I may at least remind her of the delicate nature of the mission and make sure she stays on the right track.”

“Fine. But Carolyn?”

She paused by the door, looked over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“Given that she’s currently a wanted woman throughout Europe, I want this done quietly.”

“I know just the right man for the job,” responded Carolyn, with a fond smile.

* * *

What was supposed to be a forty minute flight to London turned out to be nearly a four hour ordeal in total. The transport strikes in Paris forced Eve to spend most of that time waiting in the oversaturated airport, only for the two-way plane ticket she’d bought fair and square to be declined. Then she discovered that she’d left the iPad in Konstantin’s safehouse, that she hadn’t nearly as much cash in her money clip as she’d assumed, and that her favourite shade of lipstick hadn’t survived the transition from her old handbag to the new one. 

At least she had the burner phone. She’d held it like a scalding brick between her hands while she waited in the queue to board the train that would take her to London. With that overpriced, last-minute ticket went the last of her meager funds. She’d contemplated calling Villanelle then, but the heavy dread in her stomach ruled that option out. Eve knew she was in bad shape when she’d started talking to herself on the train and her responses came back to her in a decidedly Russian accent. 

_Why didn’t you buy a one way ticket, Eve?_

_Because l’ll be right back. Obviously._

_I do not know that. It didn’t seem that way to me._

_What did it seem like?_

_Like you...abandoned me._

_Well I’m coming back. Okay? I am._

_Whatever you say, Kill Commander._

Eve had a brief moment of respite as the stewardess offered her water, then the conversation promptly resumed:

_Do you miss me?_

_Yes._

_Already?_

Eve rubbed the plastic ring. _Yes._

_Then why are you going to Niko?_

_Because...because…_

_Because why, Eve? You do not trust me?_

_I do! It’s just that...I don’t like secrets._

_So this is not about Niko at all. This is about you needing to be a know-it-all at all times. Being too curious for your own good. Wanting to know...everything._

_It is not!_

_It sure is._

Even Eve’s imagination got the spark in Villanelle’s eyes right and the amused, slightly mocking lilt of her tone. 

_You can’t stand secrets because you can’t stand not having all the cards ready to play. And I used to think I was the control freak…_

_Villanelle, please._

_You know Eve, you still haven’t told me why you chose Niko over me._

_That’s because I didn’t choose him over you!_

_Oh, sure._

_I didn’t. I didn’t. I’m just...I’m tying up loose ends okay? That’s all. You and I are like a semi-colon, we can always keep going. But Niko is a god damn question mark. That’s why I-I have to know he’s alright, so I can just move on with you and actually enjoy the rest of my life with you, be focused on nobody else but you. I know you can understand that in your head and your heart both, Villanelle. I know you can._

_You’d better hope so, Eve. I really hope you understand the reality of the situation._

It was not that she didn’t grasp reality, Eve told herself much later as she exited the train on wobbly legs. It was just that reality usually meant nothing at all in the face of her emotions. Like the dread that continued to steadily gnaw away at her; Eve dropped by Gemma’s house first, but all the windows were darkened and not even Eve’s furious pounding on the front door could get anyone to come open it. Then the dread only increased as Eve approached the townhouse. 

The familiar quiet street was lined with sleepy cars. Trees rustled. The smell of cut grass lingered in the cool air. Lamps had just switched on to cut through the murky twilight. A flash of memory twisted Eve’s heart: Villanelle pointing out that Eve had left the front door open, Villanelle falling into step beside her, Villanelle sitting beside her in the SUV that had transported them to the Forest of Dean, Villanelle looking like a goddess of death in her glorious mourning regalia that shimmered between the pine trees and shifting sunlight. 

Eve lingered right outside the black front door. She gathered up the courage to fish for her keychain in the handbag. Blinded by darkness, she got her shaking fingers to open the door. Eve slowly crossed the threshold of the townhouse and then carefully shut the door. She stood absolutely sill in the front hallway, where Villanelle’s absence lanced through her even more acutely.

The light above the kitchen sink glowed faintly in the otherwise dark, subdued house. Eve crept up to it, feeling like a teenager that had stayed out way past her curfew. The sounds of a wooden chair scraping as it was dragged away from the dining table and a lamp being snapped on made Eve whirl around. 

A very much alive Niko stood at the head of the table. He wore a white polo shirt and a pair of what once were blue stonewashed jeans that had achieved a uniform pale from too many washings. His black leather jacket was draped on the back of the chair. 

His tousled and uncombed hair framed his stubbled face. The caterpillar-like moustache that stretched just under his thin nose twitched with every rugged line of his terse expression. Eve noticed that Niko had three, almost-faded marks ringed around his left eye.

“What happened to your face?” she asked.

“What happened to your hand?” 

Eve flexed her gauzed hand and felt it tingle with the phantom pain of Villanelle’s touch. The plastic ring dug into the side of her thigh as she lowered her hand.

“I had a good time in Paris.”

“Brilliant. You get to be in Paris while I’m under house arrest.”

Eve’s heart slammed against her ribs. 

“House arrest? For what?”

Niko barked a stiff, humourless laugh. He poured himself a glass of whiskey from the already emptying bottle on the table and threw his head back to gulp the drink down. 

“I’ve been trying to clear my name. After your girlfriend killed Gemma-”

“What?”

“Gemma’s dead, Eve! She’s dead!” Niko’s eyes were wild, reddened and shimmering with barely suppressed tears. “And I’m the primary suspect honeybunch, which means the police put me under house arrest!”

“Niko that’s-that’s rough.”

He glowered at Eve over the brim of the crystal glass. 

“How do you feel about her killing Gemma?”  
  
_Cheated,_ supplied Eve’s mind, in that distinctly Russian accent. A torrent of blistering feelings fought for supremacy in Eve’s heart. 

“I-I don’t feel anything.” 

“She killed Gemma,” repeated Niko, as though this would change anything, anything at all in Eve’s impassive expression. 

“I’m sure she had her reasons.”

“What?”

“Villanelle is highly intelligent and self-motivated, I’m sure that she had a clear goal in mind when she-”

“I saw you. On the telly. In some airport. With _her._ ” 

Panic bubbled up in Eve’s throat. She couldn’t get any words out.

“God Eve, if you’d gone off with another man, I could understand. Even a younger man. I could get that.” Niko dragged his hands down his face. “But a woman? A _woman_ , Eve? And one who’s about half your age? And a _murderer_ , for God’s sake!”

“Niko-”

“Thank God we don’t have any kids.”

“Niko-”

“Haven’t I been a good husband? Tell me that, Eve. All I’ve ever done for you is love you and take care of you.”

“You _suffocated_ me!” Eve raised her voice. “You couldn’t stand me going off to work, going into danger, doing a job that I love. You wanted to control me and keep me here!”

“I’m sorry you see it that way.”

Eve braced herself against another chair. “Do you know Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs?”

“I know I just have a maths degree Eve, you don’t need to shove your criminal psych degree in my face every single fucking chance you get.”

“Maslow arranged all human motivation in a triangle,” Eve pressed on. “In the bottom row are basic needs, like food, water and shelter. The second row is feeling safe, like your comfort zone. And I can’t deny it Niko, you had me set up pretty good for those first two rows.”

“So what more could you possibly want?” he exploded. 

“The third row is having meaningful relationships. You know, feeling loved. The fourth row is peer recognition, a cool job, healthy self-esteem.”

“Christ, Eve-”

“Self-fulfillment,” murmured Eve. “The top row is self-fulfillment, Niko.” 

His face twisted into a ghastly expression. He asked without wanting to really know, but his mouth opened and his tongue formed words, and those words somehow pushed past his gritted teeth anyway.

“Does she _fulfill_ you, Eve?”  
  
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. 

_Mmm. Of course I do._

“She fulfills me in ways you could never dream of,” added Eve, feeling a velvety shift in her mind, a thrill rushing through her veins. “She fulfills me in ways that you never could.”

“That’s fucked up.”  
  
“No Niko! You know what’s fucked up?” Eve gestured around them and between them. “This! This is fucked up.”

They glared at each other in deafening silence. Niko’s voice was feather light when he finally asked:

“Did you ever love me?” 

“I-I thought I did.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
I thought you were safe. But you’re just...boring.”

“Have you always fancied women?”

“I’ve only ever been with men, Niko.”

“So is Villanelle your mid-life crisis then? Just trying on some cunt for a change?” 

“I love Villanelle.” 

Niko spoke seemingly without entirely meaning to, his words falling out like an avalanche of stones. 

“You love me.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I love you!”  
  
“No.” Eve’s denial was sharper this time.  
  
“I do.”  
  
“You don’t understand what that is.”  
  
“I do!”

“No.” Eve raised her chin. “You never loved me. Only the idea of me. You don’t really know who I am and you never bothered to find out.” 

“Eve…”

“Enough, Niko. I’m done.” 

“Eve, you chose a _psychopath_ over our marriage.” Niko’s voice cracked. “Your father is probably rolling over in his grave.”

Snarling, Eve hurled the whiskey glass at Niko. He ducked just in time for it to shatter against the wall behind him, bringing down a row of photographs. Niko stormed out of the house and slammed the door so hard that Eve felt the boom reverberate through her skull.

She got another glass and sat with the whiskey bottle. The clock in the hallway ticked away. Eve drank. The amber liquid swirled and swirled at the bottom of the glass. The clock kept ticking away. Eve poured herself more whiskey, and drank and drank. When the warmth thoroughly liquified her, she got the burner phone out of her handbag and fired off two texts to Villanelle. Then she emptied the rest of the bottle into her mouth, slung her handbag over her shoulder, and stumbled out of the house. 

With a wheezing chortle, Eve realized that she forgot to close the door again. She shut it firmly. Turned around and saw two police patrol cars parked outside the low gate in front of the townhouse, and an unmarked black van idling on the other side of the street. Her head pounded as an officer trudged up the steps towards her. He sounded fuzzy when he declared:

“Mrs. Polastri, you are under arrest.”  
  
“Excuse me?”

“You are under arrest on suspicion of first degree murder.”

“Murder? Whose murder?” 

“Gemma Pearson,” the officer coolly informed her. “Now please, Mrs. Polastri-”

“Eve, just Eve.”

“Eve. Please be informed that you do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

She nodded numbly along and didn’t resist when the officer handcuffed her. In the back of the patrol car, Eve’s mind raced as fast as the officer drove. 

“I’m an MI6 agent,” she blurted.

The officer didn’t say anything.

“I’m in the middle of a mission. I can’t just be arrested!” 

The officer didn’t say anything.

Eve bit her lip. Wondered if she was slurring her words. Closed her eyes in embarrassment as it dawned on her in a whiskey-soaked haze that even if the officer could somehow confirm that she was working for MI6, it wasn’t as if they would claim her. A hysterical little laugh tore itself from her abruptly dry lips.

“I probably sound crazy.”

_Eve, you are crazy!_

_You be quiet. You especially._

“Mrs. Polastri-Eve. I strongly suggest that you remain silent. At least until we reach the station.”

“But-but…” Eve blinked. “I just want to understand what’s going on. Please.”

It was hard to get across to the officer just how weak she was feeling. She had no fight in her at all. The adrenaline made her feel sick and shaky. Being in the throttling police car wasn’t helping matters; her legs were entirely at the mercy of the shifting floor that pitched as the car swerved around corners. The pressure coming from her head down to her chest produced a horrible void. Residues of whiskey seemed to slosh between her ears and Eve was unable to gather any strength at all.

The officer, Eve was sure, realized that he was in complete control of the situation. He continued addressing Eve in a serious, professional manner.

“It’s a difficult situation, I’m afraid. Very complicated.”

‘Why? Just tell me that. Why do I have to be arrested? I didn’t kill anyone! Fuck. My work, my life–I didn’t kill Gemma, you understand?” Eve pressed her face against the bars separating the front of the patrol car from the back “Why is this happening? What is this? I mean-what the fuck?”

The officer sighed and shook his head, as though by saying “fuck” a second time, Eve had condemned herself utterly. Any chance of escape was gone now. 

 _She persistently used abusive and foul language,_ the officer would note in the evidence report submitted to his superiors. _Specifically, she said ‘fuck’ multiple times. Unfortunately, that confirmed it for me: I had no option other than to arrest her and lock her up for the rest of her life._

Eve’s head spun as she was taken out of the police car. The officer hauled her into the station, where she was promptly processed by grim looking officers. They snapped her photographs, took her fingerprints and snatched a head hair root for their DNA sample. The officer in charge of impounding her possessions insisted on recounting them all before he tucked them away into containers, as if Eve was ailing from memory loss. 

“One pair of earrings, gold. One black flip phone, Samsung. One Chanel handbag, python, valued at over six thousand dollars. One wedding band, gold, with a sapphire stone.” The officer paused and looked at Eve with his bushy eyebrows raised. “One...Ring Pop plastic ring. Flavour, um. Uh-”

“Blueberry,” Eve offered helpfully.

“Blueberry,” snapped the officer. 

He continued droning on. Then Eve was led to an interrogation room and just left to wait. She sat cross-legged in the metal chair. The thin table in front of her had a laminated wood surface that would have made Villanelle turn her nose up at it in disgust. The wall directly across from her was a two way mirror, of course, with its blurry, impassive surface stubbornly refusing to offer her any insight. The lights overhead were low and one fizzed loudly as if it was on the verge of blowing out at any moment. Eve hated the stale, tense smell of interrogation rooms, absolutely hated it.

After a while, the door opened and a portly man with greying hair entered. Eve sat properly and placed her hands flat on the table. The man sauntered up to the table, threw down a manila file folder, and reached into the pocket of his wool vest for a cigar. 

“Could you maybe not smoke in here?” asked Eve. “I’m trying to quit.”

The interrogator squinted at her, puffed several rings of smoke, and spoke smoothly. 

“Mrs. Polastri, do you know why you’re here?”

“Eve! Just Eve.”

“Well, Eve? Do you?”

“The arresting officer told me that I killed someone.”

“The victim’s name is Gemma.”

“Right.”

“Did you know Gemma?”

“I knew that she was seeing my husband outside of work.”

“Did you think they were having an affair?”

“Yeah.” Eve raked her hands through her hair. “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

“Later.”

“No, now! I’m not answering any more questions.”

“Mrs. Polastri-”

“Eve! Just Eve!”

“Are you aware that your husband has been a primary suspect in Gemma’s murder?”

Eve rolled her eyes. “Yeah.”

“Righto.” The interrogator heaved in the last of his cigar. The smoke curled up towards the lights. 

“Did you know that your husband has named you the primary suspect now?”

The words shattered through Eve like a falling diamond chandelier. She suddenly needed to be the one asking questions instead of answering them. 

“What?”

“Oh yeah, it’s all in here.” The interrogator tapped the file folder. “He came down to the station about an hour and a half ago.”

Eve’s blood boiled. “I didn’t kill Gemma!”

“Your husband has confessed.” 

“There’s none of my DNA at the crime scene!”

“But your husband has confessed.”

The interrogator flipped the file open and read from it as if Eve was taking dictation. 

“Apparently Eve, you already have a history of violence. You admitted as early as two months ago that you thought about chopping your husband up into little pieces and flushing him down a restaurant toilet. You slapped and shoved your husband during a heated argument. And this very same month, you admitted to your husband that you stabbed a woman in Paris.”

The interrogator glared at her. Nausea welled up in Eve’s throat. Her hands were freezing, her breaths came short and shallow.

“Your husband detailed how your gruesome line of work followed you home just about every day of the week. How you’d hole up in your office and spend hours upon hours looking at gory pictures, researching killers and their methods, instead of spending time with him.”

“I worked for MI5! I went overtime!” 

“Your husband said you were fired. Twice.”

Eve swallowed hard. “I work for MI6 now.”

“Righto.” The interrogator glanced down at the file. “A few weeks ago, you stalked your husband and Gemma to her own home. Which is not far from the storage unit she was renting, by the way.”

He turned the file around so that Eve could see photos of Gemma’s body arranged upright on a horribly ugly, mustard yellow sofa. In the dim light of the storage unit, her face was suffocated by cellophane banners that had FRAGILE stamped on them. She looked like a banshee that had been rudely interrupted in the midst of an ear-splitting scream. Eve inhaled the dramatic presentation and bit back a lopsided grin.

_Wow. I think this is your best work yet, Villanelle._

_Thank you, Kill Commander._

The interrogator’s voice was coming to Eve from far away. 

“Not to mention that you were well aware of your husband’s affair. I can understand your position-”

She laughed mirthlessly. “No, you can’t.”

“-I’ve been cheated on, too. I know how jealousy works as a motive for murder.”

“For the last time, I didn’t kill Gemma.”

“Righto.” The interrogator gathered the file. “You can tell your lawyer that now, you’re due for your one phone call.”

Eve’s first instinct was to call Villanelle. But she would probably never actually let Eve live this down; the familiar dread pooled in her gut at the thought of having to explain everything to an inconsolable assassin. So Eve stabbed in the familiar number at MI6.

Carolyn would fix everything. She had to.

* * *

Konstantin’s safehouse looked like a hurricane had devastated it. The table in front of the pull-out couch was flipped. Glass was embedded in the fur rug, along with the scattered remains of popcorn. Decorative pillows were torn open, their casing strewn around the main room. Books littered the bathroom hallway. The voodoo masks lay cracked in the bedroom hallway. Broken bottles of vodka soaked the kitchen floor, while their shards were still stuck in the ripped window curtains.

Several chairs had been smashed to pieces. Their legs were further splintered, along with being hacked apart for good measure. Large holes were punched into the walls. The television remote was rammed into the cracked screen. And Villanelle was standing with a severely bent umbrella in her hand, preparing to strike down the remaining framed paintings from the shelf. 

Her cheeks were flushed. Her hair was disheveled. Her breathing was ragged. She felt as untethered and yet strangely heavy as when she’d taken those awful drugs in Amsterdam; the unfiltered aggression and raw, unstoppable energy seemed to course through her veins again. When the memory of Eve’s lips tingled against her own, she brought down the umbrella. When the memory of Eve’s hands on her breasts made her breath hitch, Villanelle swept the umbrella against the fallen paintings again, sending them careening across the room. 

And when the memory of Eve’s hungry eyes and her intoxicating scent and her comforting voice and the fucking _feel_ of her, the invigorating, exciting, _essential_ feel of her scorched through Villanelle’s chest, she stabbed the pointed end of the umbrella into the paintings, over and over again, until the pointy end snapped clean off. 

Through a red haze, Villanelle gradually became aware that the burner phone beside the charging iPad was buzzing. She hurled the umbrella aside and went to the kitchen counter. Numbly, Villanelle flipped the phone open to see two texts from Eve. The first one made Villanelle’s heart stumble.

 _Niko’s gone. I’m still at the house._  
  
The next text had flared across the screen about a minute later. It made Villanelle’s veins freeze. 

_I know what you did to Gemma._

Villanelle gripped the phone until her knuckles popped. Her thoughts flipped back in forth in her mind like a light switch. She paced to set them along some logical track. The glass crunched beneath her black leather ankle boots. Her breathing was harsh to her own ears. 

Eve had _abandoned_ her. But...if Eve had abandoned her, then why had she bothered to send those texts? Villanelle scowled at them again. She could not decipher Eve’s mood, or her tone, or her body language, or her gaze, or her hair, through a screen. This arrangement of letters and spaces, devoid of intent and emotion, maddened Villanelle. 

She glanced around the room. There was nothing of use left. She glanced down at the phone. It wasn’t the kind of attention she preferred, no. It was too inanimate and left far too much to interpretation. However, it was fresh and it let her lungs expand to gulp more air in, let new blood pump through her veins, let her misty eyes sharpen their focus once more. 

Besides, Villanelle thought with a smirk, even if Eve knew what she had done to Gemma, Eve surely still wanted to _understand,_ to dissect the how and the why.

And that (among other things) warranted an explanation in person. 

Villanelle threw the burner phone and the iPad into her own gold, diamond encrusted Chanel handbag. She walked out the door without bothering to close it. Soon enough, she managed to purchase a plane ticket, to threaten the seller _without_ actually killing her when she was about to decline Villanelle’s purchase, and to endure a blurry, agonizing flight to London without massacring her fellow passengers and the entire crew. 

The depth of the night wrapped itself around Villanelle like a star-stitched shawl. It was that break even hour during which it was too late to go back to the beginning of the night, and yet still too early to think about dawn. 

Even blinded and deafened, Villanelle could still find her way down Eve’s street. She felt the synchrony in the back of her head, tripped on it like red razor wire wrapped around her heart. Except for a few cars parked sleepily along the streets, all was quiet and motionless in suspense. 

Villanelle was nearing the front door when an unmarked black van flashed its headlights at her. She threw up a hand to shield herself from the full force of the glare. The lights flashed again. Squinting, Villanelle could barely make out the silhouette of someone beckoning to her. 

The popping white and yellow spots gradually faded from her vision enough for her to grin in recognition. 

“Hello, Konstantin.”  
  
“Hello, Villanelle.” 

He opened the passenger door. She climbed in.

“Were you waiting just for me?”  
  
“Actually, yes. Carolyn’s orders.”  
  
“Oh.” Villanelle’s face fell exaggeratedly. “And here I thought that you actually cared about me.”  
  
Konstantin sighed. “Carolyn is worried about your mission.”  
  
“What is she worried about? It is fine!”

“You are making a big mess, you and Eve.”

“You worry too much.” Villanelle pet the top of his balding head. 

Konstantin eyed her plastic ring. “Why are you wearing that hideous...thing? It does not match your outfit at all.”

“I married Eve.” 

Konstantin guffawed. Then his laughter died down and his eyes narrowed. 

“What is it about her?”

“We are the same.”

Konstantin scratched his beard. “Where is Eve now?”  
  
Villanelle pouted. “We had a fight. And...she left.”

Konstantin snorted. “I do not think she left. Probably she is just needing some space, yes?”

Villanelle turned her head away to look at the boring sidewalk outside. 

“Fights happen. Especially when you are married. But that does not mean you quit. Are you listening?”

“Uh-huh.” 

“Another thing about marriage is that it needs vulnerability, Villanelle. If you are too broken to reveal your wounds to another person, then they never truly heal.”

Villanelle looked at him again. “How is your wife, Konstantin?”  
  
“Fine. Still recovering from being stuffed into a cupboard by you.”  
  
“And Irina?”  
  
“Still annoying,” he grunted. “Still never shutting up about you and the very cool shooting scar you gave me. Especially since she cannot see it.”

Konstantin’s eyes darted to Villanelle’s stomach. He kept his voice careful and light, and for that she would not bash his head through the windshield. 

“How is your scar, Villanelle?”

“Good, good.” She patted it with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Where is Eve?”

“I do not know much-”  
  
Villanelle lunged for the car keys. She wrenched them out and pressed the sharp teeth of the ignition key against the soft flesh of Konstantin’s hammering jugular vein. His hands clenched the steering wheel. His eyes strained to see all of her in his peripheral vision.  
  
“Where is Eve?” Villanelle repeated calmly. 

“S-she was arrested.”  
  
The key dug in. “Go on.”

“I drove Eve from the station to the MI6 headquarters about half an hour ago. She is there with Carolyn now. That is all I know.”

Villanelle eyed him suspiciously. The key dug in harder. 

“Truly, Villanelle. That is what Carolyn wanted.”

“Take me to MI6 right now,” Villanelle hissed.  
  
Konstantin shook his head. “I can’t. Wait!” 

The key was about to pierce his skin.  
  
“Carolyn thought that you would want to see Eve. But, she told me to tell you to keep going.”  
  
“Keep going?”  
  
“Yes. With the mission.”

“I don’t care about the mission,” snarled Villanelle.

Konstantin blinked. “Carolyn insists that you keep going anyway.”  
  
“And if I don’t? What could she possibly do to me, Konstantin?”  
  
Interesting, thought Villanelle, his eyes were suddenly sad.  
  
“It is not you that you should be worried about. You are married now, yes?”  
  
Villanelle slowly removed the key from his throat and tossed the keychain onto the dashboard. Her heart threw itself against her ribcage, as if begging to be freed from the intensity of the feelings swirling within.

“Then I will stay with you in London until Eve is finished with Carolyn at MI6.”  
  
Konstantin shook his head fiercely. “No, Villanelle. No!” He held up a stern finger at her. “Remember one of the first things I taught you?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.”  
  
“I don’t think so,” he snapped. “Say it so I know that you have not forgotten.”  
  
“Do not stay too long in one place,” Villanelle huffed.

“Yes. Every time that you have stayed too long in one place, you have made mistakes. Don’t be stupid again now, Villanelle.” 

She crossed her arms. “Don’t you think that Irina would like to see me? And you are being mean like this, sending me away.”

“You can’t do anything good if you stay here in London. Especially if you are with me. MI6 watches the safehouse. If they see you, they will get you too. And then you really cannot help Eve. So go, finish the mission.”

Villanelle got out the iPad. Wanted to smash the screen against the van’s shifter when it didn’t recognize her touch. Then she keyed in the code “1234” out of pure amusement. She grinned when she was admitted and swiped around for a bit until she could tell Konstantin the email address Eve had used. 

“What about The Twelve?” asked Villanelle, as she tucked the iPad back into her handbag. 

Konstantin stared at the road. “I can give you a day’s head start.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I don’t trust Carolyn to keep my family safe.”

“But you trust _me_ with that?”

Konstantin shrugged. “Irina trusts you.” 

“She is funny.” Villanelle gazed at Konstantin meaningfully. “Will you watch my better half?”

“Yes,” Konstantin sighed again.  
  
“Promise?”

“Yes, yes. Now go, Villanelle. We’ll be in touch.”

She got out of the van, and then she remembered. “Konstantin?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Will you be visiting Paris anytime soon?”  
  
“What, after Notre Dame? No.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Why do you want to know?”  
  
“Oh, no reason. I was just wondering.” Villanelle twirled her hair. “You have such a nice safehouse in Paris, you know, and I was just curious if you would be staying there. Also, how much did all those masks and vases and other things cost you? Again, I am just wondering. You can tell me now or I can send you the bill later, if you like.”

Villanelle set off down the street while Konstantin yelled after her.

* * *

The last person that Eve had expected to come pick her up from the police station was Konstantin. He’d escorted her out of the claustrophobic holding cell not too long after the interrogator had menacingly informed Eve that she would remain in custody for at least another forty-eight hours. 

Her neck hurt. Her shoulders were cramped. She rubbed circulation back into her wrists and watched Konstantin glug the mini bottle of vodka he’d taken from the glove compartment in the van.

“Where are we going?” she asked hoarsely. 

“Carolyn wants to see you.”

“Oh, thank god!”

Relief flooded through Eve as Konstantin finally pulled up to the MI6 headquarters. Its tiered sandstone and glass exterior dwarfed the banks of the river Thames. Konstantin turned the engine off. Eve lingered in the car.

“Have you seen Villanelle?”

“No. I am surprised that she is not with you.”

Eve tucked some stray strands of hair behind her ears. “We got into an argument and I...well, I came here.”  
  
“You left Villanelle all alone? After an argument?”

Eve looked down at the floor. 

Konstantin tsked. “Clear communication between professionals is very important, Eve.”  
  
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Eve waved Konstantin off. As she approached the entrance to MI6, Carolyn intercepted her from behind a pillar. 

“Jesus Carolyn, you almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Apologies, Eve. That would be a very poor way to die.”

Eve peered at her. The woman looked as well put together as ever in her elegant navy trench coat, white blouse, and grey pants. Not a hint of tiredness or distress flicked across her features. In fact, she looked for all the world like she’d accidentally bumped into an old acquaintance, one that she privately immensely disliked. 

“I have just had the worst day of my life and this entire night has been _insane_ and-”

Carolyn smiled tightly. “Follow me please, Eve.”

Struck into silence by Carolyn’s unaffected tone, Eve trailed behind her. They passed old, regal architecture mixed with the sloping, gleaming, sleek lines of modern walls, doors, and abstract fixtures. Carolyn led Eve to a section of the MI6 building that she’d never been in before. 

Past bustling research and server rooms, past corridors with low, arched ceilings and neatly laid bricks, past shooting ranges and physical combat rooms, Carolyn swept Eve into a soundproof, clinically white room. It looked like a more pristine (yet somehow immensely more menacing) version of the interrogation room Eve had used before. 

Eve hesitated. Carolyn motioned her over to the maple wooden stool and white marble table set up near the icy two-way mirror. Eve couldn’t recognize herself in its shifting, malevolent surface. She sat down. Carolyn towered over her with crossed arms.  
  
“Um…” Eve’s eyes flitted up to the comb-like lights affixed to the smooth roof, the wires threaded discreetly through the curving lines of the room. With the door closed, everything was seamless and ethereal. “When do you think I’ll be able to get my things back from the police?”

“I can put a request in to have them transferred here. But I wouldn’t rush, Eve.”

“Oh-kay.” Eve clasped her hands before her on the cold, cold table. “Carolyn, what’s going on?”

“I thought we’d check in face-to-face for a change.”  
  
“So you had me arrested earlier?”  
  
“No, Eve. I had nothing to do with that.”

Eve gaped at her. “Then that...was real?”  
  
“I’m afraid so.”

“But...but…”

In the end, all she could think of was this singular, three letter word that hardly contained the sheer force of her confusion, exhaustion, bewilderment, and rage. 

“I can make all that go away, of course. Eventually.”  
  
“Then why am I even here?”  
  
“Why, indeed.” Carolyn inhaled sharply. “I must confess that I actually...miss having Villanelle around. But you mustn’t tell her I said that, or I’ll sack you immediately.”

Eve sighed. “Okay. Look, we’ve got six USBs already and we just have six more to go, so I really don’t understand why-”

“You and Villanelle have broken international law more times than even I can care to keep track of. You’ve been reckless and obnoxious. I told you Eve, this is a covert operation, whose success depends upon your professionalism. If you can’t grasp that, well then I really can’t help you.”  

“Such is the nature of fieldwork. Right, Carolyn?”  
  
Her lips twitched. “Don’t be facetious, Eve. Certain higher ups have taken note of your poor performance and I’m sorry to say, but if you and Villanelle don’t shape up, there will be consequences.”  
  
“Is that it? You brought me here to vaguely threaten me?”  
  
Carolyn tapped a finger against the side of her nose. Then she yawned. 

“Do I have your assurance, Eve, that you and Villanelle will conduct yourselves professionally from now on?”  
  
Eve spread her hands. “I can’t control Villanelle. God Carolyn, you told me that yourself!”  
  
“I am fully aware of what I say and do, Eve.” Carolyn’s voice rang metallically throughout the room. “I am not asking for you to control Villanelle. I am asking for you to keep in mind the nature of this mission. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I would hate to be strict.”  
  
“What would you even do, Carolyn?” Eve raised her chin. Her own voice was clear and steady, filling the room with an authoritative presence. “You know that there is no one else that can get the job done like Villanelle and I can. And I’m not afraid of anything. My life can’t possibly be more fucked up than it already is.” 

“I am still not sure that you understand the gravity of the situation, Eve.”  
  
“What _situation,_ Carolyn? What’s really going on?”  
  
Carolyn’s eyes glittered coldly. “You’ve put a noose around your neck. I’m offering to take it off.”

“I’ll take my chances, thank you.”  
  
“So be it.”

Carolyn walked away from Eve. She left the room, closing the door noiselessly behind her. Eve hesitated. Wondered if that was her cue to simply leave and just get on with things. She was just about to leave herself when another door near the two-way mirror swung open. 

A short figure came towards Eve, wearing an outfit that contrasted vividly against the dispassionate room. Black hair, black shirt, black pants, black arm braces, and a voice as black as the ominous night.

“Remember me?” asked The Ghost.


	10. Initiation

Somewhere between selling sunscreen at a kiosk along Sydney’s bustling waterfront and being invited onto a private yacht, Villanelle decided that this was much better than the old method of getting postcards from Konstantin. 

As soon as she set foot on the yacht’s wooden deck, a carefree smile shimmered on Villanelle’s face. Her hair flowed freely from underneath the Panama hat she wore. The white dress with navy blue stripes flattered her figure immensely, judging from the heads that turned as she made her way through the open-air dining area. The chefs were grilling fish and dousing shrimp along with scallops in white wine; the invigorating scent of lemon and the refreshing, salt tinged air drifted to Villanelle amidst clusters of sunscreened, chatting people.

Inside the glass encased salon, Villanelle sat down on the leather sofa and dwelled on her next move. It was hushed in here, with its pleasing interior of light wall panels of open-grain wood, pale-coloured upholstery and carpets, and pops of red and purple decorations. The refined and tranquil atmosphere calmed Villanelle enough for her to concentrate on the options she splayed out in her mind like a hand of cards. 

Creaking and whooshing, the yacht cut swiftly and unstoppably through azure waters. Villanelle thought about the waves of screams and cries and shock and awe that would crash into her when she killed the Keeper who had invited her onboard. Villanelle contemplated disposing of the woman on the top deck, where the sleek bar was, so that she could conveniently enjoy a celebratory drink afterwards. But there were less people on the top deck, and shrinking her audience displeased Villanelle. 

_Think like you’re the target, not like you’re an assassin._

Villanelle rolled her eyes. Konstantin could have told her that. And he had, many times. Except it was different now, hearing it in Eve’s soft-spoken, sonorous, no-nonsense voice. 

_That would be easier if I knew how a thirty-something photography hobbyist thinks like. I can’t think boring thoughts, Eve._

During the pondering pause in Villanelle’s mind, she pictured Eve deep in thought. Meticulous. Deliberate. Her chin supported by her fingers, her dark curly hair framing the concentrated expression on her face, her mesmerizing brown eyes revealing her to be a woman of feral appetites and intensity. She would dip her chin as the right thought came to her. But, like Atlas bearing the weight of the world, Eve would strain unawares under the weight of that thought, wracked by the tedium and banality of her life.

Until Villanelle had completely improved it, of course. She could feel Eve’s resonant agreement at this thought, all silvery and hot, pooling low in her gut.

_Have you checked the cabins, Villanelle?_

_No._

_Then go check._

_Why?_

_Because if I indulged in a ridiculously expensive camera for just this little hobby, that’s where I’d keep it._

Villanelle went below deck. The spacious cabins were luxuriously appointed, with plush carpets and robust shelves filled with nautical themed books and clothes. She checked out each cabin, struck by the combination of hand-carved floral inlay floors, bamboo, woven wood and leather textures, and especially the elegant, walnut woodwork curling around the sumptuous beds. It was all that she could do not to get distracted by visions of fucking Eve on each of them. 

 _How loudly do you think you could make me scream?_ _  
_

Pausing by the vintage-styled photography camera carelessly left on the edge of a large bed, Villanelle considered the question with a quickening pulse.

_Loud enough for me to have to smother you with a pillow, probably._

_But then I wouldn’t be able to see your lovely face…_

_That is true._

This unintended consequence made Villanelle shuffle her thoughts. She wondered if she could possibly, just for a little while, recline on this bed and slip a hand between her thighs. Already, there was a dampness that threatened to coat the fine material of her dress. Villanelle bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. She glanced longingly at the bed.

_Villanelle! Concentrate._

_Or what, Kill Commander?_

Villanelle’s own response still managed to surprise her.

_Or you could make a mistake, die, and never see me again._

Propelled by a sense of foreboding, Villanelle emerged back onto the main deck. The camera dangled around her neck from its thin leather strap. It was a siren’s call for the Keeper who finally noticed Villanelle leaning precariously over the edge of the steel railing.  

“Hey!” she came over, face flushed from the heat and her anger. “That’s my camera!”

Villanelle didn’t look at her. She looked out across the choppy waves instead, at Sydney’s gleaming silver skyline. It struck a chord of inspiration in Villanelle, to try and squeeze as much Australian accent into her voice as she could. Even if doing so felt like scraping sandpaper over her vocal chords. 

“Relax. I am just borrowing it.”

“How on earth did you get it?”

“You left your cabin open.”

And now Villanelle fixed the Keeper with a piercing gaze, revelling in the embarrassment that heated her cheeks and the tips of her ears. She did not have dark, curly hair. She was not that much older than Villanelle. And yet...Villanelle tilted her head to observe the Keeper closely. She was not unlike Villanelle, with her long, blonde hair, intelligent eyes, and intriguing features. 

“You look gorgeous!” Villanelle held up the camera. “Lemme take your photo.”

The Keeper reddened even more, a disarmed smile splitting across her face. “Oh gosh, no way! I’m a sweaty mess.”

“C’mon, let me take a photo. You belong on a magazine cover!”

Villanelle tracked the Keeper’s eye movements as she glanced behind her, towards a burly black man lounging in swim trunks on the sun deck. 

“Don’t let my boyfriend hear you say that,” said the Keeper.

Villanelle giggled breathily. “Wanna have a photo shoot in your cabin?” When the Keeper hesitated, Villanelle pressed in like a scalpel halving a vital organ. “Your boyfriend won’t see us there.”

Very flattered and very flustered, the Keeper let Villanelle lead the way. As soon as they got to the cabin, Villanelle shut the door and instructed the Keeper to pose on the bed. She obeyed easily, like a sheep obeyed its shepherd, unaware that the wolf was always watching. Villanelle enthusiastically photographed, showering compliments and praise onto the Keeper, dazzling her with a smile as bright as the flash that she switched on when the cabin shadows interrupted the right angle. 

“So what scouting company do you work for again?” asked The Keeper.

“Uh, I am freelance.”

“I thought you said earlier that you worked for a Sydney based company?”

“No. I did not say that. You must have heard me wrong.”

The Keeper tossed her hair, moved to get off the bed. 

“Hold still!”

She froze. Her eyes widened in alarm.

“No offence, but maybe you are a better model than you are a photographer.”

“You’ve never seen any of my photos.” 

Villanelle squinted at her. “So show me”

The Keeper went to the laptop on the desk.  She dropped the silver USB from her pocket and into a mug alongside some pens. Villanelle caught it in her peripheral vision as she tried to focus on the boring photos that slid across the screen.

“These are just photos of cars and fruit and flowers. Nothing special.”

The Keeper looked at her pathetically, like she was about to cry. Villanelle’s hands balled into fists. She could barely control her voice.

“I was right. You are definitely better on the receiving end of the lens.”

The Keeper’s eyes lingered on Villanelle’s lips as she wet them with her tongue.

“Get back on the bed,” commanded Villanelle.

She did. 

“Take your shirt off.”

She hesitated. Villanelle stepped forward.

“Take your shirt off. Please.”

Villanelle reached for the camera again as the Keeper did as she was told. Her breasts were small, but she had a nice tan and her muscles looked like steel sheathed in velvet. Villanelle wondered what would happen if she peeled her skin off later, whether the tissue and tendon would unravel and hang limply from glistening bone or if it would remain supple and pliant. Her spirit would be of most interest; Villanelle wanted to know whether it would stick around like a particularly stubborn spot of blood on a priceless Persian rug, or if it would collapse through her emptying eyes, leaking away like water being sucked down the drain. 

“Do you think I’m beautiful?” asked The Keeper.

Villanelle blinked. “Sure.”

“I wish my boyfriend would tell me that more often.”

“You don't need a man to tell you you're beautiful. Honestly, and I can attest, most  men only think about sex. You can see this in their actions, in the way they speak. It's primal and rather pathetic in my eyes.”

Villanelle sauntered up to the bed and brushed the tip of her thumb against the Keeper’s jaw. “Any person would be lucky to have you in any body you have. You're much more than your physical form, and if someone doesn't appreciate that, fuck them.” 

The Keeper looked up at Villanelle in awe. She guided Villanelle’s hands down to her breasts. Villanelle lightly pinched and rolled the Keeper’s nipples between deft fingers. She felt them harden fully against her palms, and in turn warmed her breasts by rubbing in slow circles. Villanelle left wet, smacking kisses between them, trailing all the way up to the Keeper’s mouth.

They kissed. Villanelle waited for her stomach to somersault; for her hands to tremble; for her core to come alive in waves of fire; for her veins to carry intense feelings back and forth from her heart and then radiate out the rest of her; and for her soul to swell and expand and throb the way it did when she was when Eve. 

It didn’t happen. 

Villanelle pulled away, artificially accelerating her breathing and generating sparks of excitement in her eyes. They kissed again, blank and bleak; the Keeper moaned and Villanelle imitated the same pitch and frequency right back at her. She kept her eyes fixed on the bedpost, which was a lot more interesting than the body that currently writhed in her hands. The Keeper pulled away, grabbed Villanelle’s left hand to push it against her clit, then stopped. 

“You’re married?”  
  
“Oh, this?” Villanelle beamed at the plastic ring. “Yeah.”   
  
“And...your partner is okay with this?”   
  
“It is an open marriage thing.”   
  
_It is not!_

Well no, Villanelle relented, it really wasn’t. But it was still an...arrangement. And currently a long distance one at that. Besides, Villanelle was filled with wanting right now, and she would get what she wanted. Always. 

_Don’t be jealous, Eve._

_I would never cheat on you._

_You cheated on your husband with me._

_That’s different!_

_Yeah. Just like this is different. This is a professional fuck._

_Oh baby, is that really what you want?_

Villanelle pushed the Keeper down roughly and silenced her excited yelp with a sharp kiss. Villanelle let her hands travel lightly along the Keeper’s flanks and plotted out when it would be best to watch, front row and center, the Keeper’s life slip away. 

Villanelle screwed her eyes shut to isolate the Keeper’s hands from her arms, which were in turn removed from her torso and her neck and the head and the face and the mind behind it all; Villanelle concentrated on the pure feeling of quivering, hot flesh and pearly slickness that smelled and tasted nothing like Eve, but behind closed eyes Villanelle could play a game of pretend so that the feeling was almost accurate. Almost. 

Villanelle let herself drift half out of her body so that she could curl up in the abscesses of her mind instead of looking at the Keeper. Nothing about this was personal, surely Eve could understand that in the furnace depths of her heart and know it in the oasis of her mind. 

Then again, mused Villanelle as she felt herself approaching climax at the thought of mounting the Keeper’s head on the yacht’s bow, what Eve did not know wouldn’t kill her. 

* * *

 

The MI6 office was broiling. Hugo had tried fixing the asthmatic air conditioning earlier, but only succeeded in completely wrecking it. He whined that it was too hot to work, whined that there was no more cold water left, whined that it was too hot to go outside for a smoke, and whined and whined until Kenny stuffed some heavenly earbuds into his ears. 

Soothing sounds of waterfalls, birds, and breezes helped him concentrate on sequencing the current USBs at his disposal. Wrapped up in tranquility, Kenny couldn’t understand why the rest of the world had to be so depraved and violent. There was no need for aggression in between the lines of his code; there was no chaos in his neatly determined parameters; destabilization had no place with the stable letters and numbers that produced a direct result. Cause and effect was as easy as typing on the smooth keys, without a drop of blood spilt.

Kenny glanced at his other monitor. The sequence displayed six scattered geo-coordinates; some pointed to ancient ruins, others indicated historic monuments or sites of worship. Every time the sequence looped, these locations would shift and shimmer like links in an ever-elusive digital chain. Kenny drummed his fingers on the desk, swiveled in his chair, shot dark glances at an oblivious Hugo, and finally caved in to the temptation to surf the web while the sequence carried on.

As soon as Kenny looked at the newsfeed, shock and revulsion surged through him. The top story for the past two days was apparently a gruesome incident on a private yacht off the coast of Sydney. Queasy and shaking, Kenny closed the browser before immaculately high definition photos of a woman’s decapitated, mounted body were fully displayed. He rocketed out of his seat. Hugo glanced up.

“Where are you going?”

“Out!”

With clammy hands, Kenny fumbled for his iPhone. He stuffed earbuds into his ears, switched on a podcast about anxiety management strategies, and completed three whole circuits around the block before he felt even remotely ready to go back inside. The office’s warehouse exterior was stained with exhaust smoke, patches of graffiti, and dilapidated brickwork. Weeds poked through widening cracks in the pavement. The sun beat down. It seemed as if the world was entirely unaffected by the horrors it sustained day after day. 

Hugo seemed to have that same demeanour. He was leaning against the doorframe of the entrance and nonchalantly smoking by the time Kenny returned. 

“Does anything bother you?” blurted Kenny.

“Not really.”

“How? There’s always something going on!”

“Exactly.” Hugo took a long drag. “It’s always the same, everywhere I go: while I’m out shopping, when I’m on the tube, when I’m checking my phone. All the same shite.”

“So you just ignore it?”

“Got to. Otherwise I’ll burn out twice as fast than I usually do.”

Hugo spread his arms across the doorway, blocking Kenny’s attempt to push past him. 

“D’you feel any better knowing?” asked Hugo.

“I’d rather know than be oblivious, yeah.”

Hugo shrugged. “You’ve heard one story of murder or assault or fraud or some other crisis, you’ve heard them all. Nothing changes.”

“Not with that attitude,” Kenny muttered. 

Hugo slowly crushed his cigarette beneath the sole of his polished loafers. As he dropped his arms, he said:

“Your mum called while you were out. Said it’s urgent.”

Kenny winced. “Thanks.”

Carolyn did indeed sound remotely excited when Kenny worked up the nerve to call back. He imagined that she was adjusting her glasses to a less severe angle while they talked.

“I must thank you again for finding The Ghost.”

“No problem."

“I suppose Villanelle also deserves credit for getting The Ghost’s own name out of her, but such praise is rather irrelevant when she’s not here to receive it.”

Kenny swivelled in his chair. “Is The Ghost still with you?”

“She was.” A pause shivered across the line. “She’s back in the field now.”

“Cool.”

Kenny turned up the volume on his iPhone just to make sure he actually caught all of Carolyn’s praise. 

“I’m proud of you, Kenny.”

“Thanks, mum.”

Another pause vibrated between them. 

“And I must say...your work has been most impressive for The Twelve.”

“Oh.”

“Again, recruiting The Ghost would have been impossible if you hadn’t found her. Not to mention your work as codebreaker.”

“I’m trying my best.”

“I know. And it’s been noticed.” Carolyn cleared her throat lightly. “I’d like to offer you a promotion.”

“Promotion?”

“Yes. I want you to take over Raymond’s role.”

“Uh…”

“You do remember him, don’t you?”

“Dunno.”

“Before Villanelle disposed of him, Raymond was the head Keeper. He was visiting Aaron in Rome to acquire his program and update the rest of the Keepers.”

Kenny’s own voice sounded distant to him, wavering and thinned out by excitement. 

“You want me to be head Keeper...of The Twelve?”

“Yes.”

“Mum…”

“You would be a perfect fit here, Kenny.”

Kenny stared at the ceiling. His heart and head pounded.

“Do you want to meet The Twelve before you decide?”  
  
“Yeah,” Kenny answered quickly.   
  
“Are you sure? Once you do, there’s really no going back.” 

Kenny took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m sure, mum.”

Carolyn’s smile glimmered through the phone. “Then we’ll get your initiation under way.” 

* * *

The bamboo groves of Arashiyama in Kyoto offered Villanelle the perfect cover as she stalked the Keeper. 

Tucked along the base of the steep mountains, soaring stalks framed the curving trails that cut through the verdant emerald thickets. The heavy, moist scent of the earth heightened Villanelle’s focus. Sunlight falling through the slender branches of bamboo and the mysterious, hollow, yet strangely tranquil sound of the wind rustling in the leaves almost made her want to stop what she was doing just to enjoy the moment.

Almost.

Villanelle picked her way past some rocks just in time to see a chattering monkey swing down from a bamboo branch to drop in front of the Keeper. He immediately got his phone out and snapped photos, vigorously adjusting his positioning as the monkey observed him quizzically. The Keeper’s lanyard swung wildly; it was hooked to his phone, as was the silver USB. He jerked it away from the monkey’s prying grasp just in time and continued along the path.

With an immensely profound sigh, Villanelle followed the Keeper to the nearby Tenryu-ji Zen temple. It was regal and mysterious, with its black, sloping roofs and the presiding forest-blanketed mountains. An intricately carved stone path led to the thick wooden doors of the temple entrance. The pillars of the main hall still bore the sword marks left by samurai from centuries ago. Polished, hushed hallways branched off into tatami-mat rooms. The potent scent of incense burned the calm air. 

The Keeper strolled out into the main garden. It had a large pond that caught the reflection of maple and cherry trees, as well as the large rough-cut rocks lingering on the periphery. Sand smooshed with every step that Villanelle took to close in on the Keeper, who had now paused by the banks of the pond. His head was bowed, as if in deep thoughtful or perhaps prayer. The reflection of the mountain range wrinkled the pond’s pristine surface. More monkeys gossiped in the distance. Villanelle waited. 

She watched the Keeper take a winding path over a gently arched bridge. After a moment, she trailed behind him while he passed small waterfalls, startled a crane wading in waters filled with koi, and maneuvered out of range from the stern gazes of several stone statues. They brooded over a white panelled building adjacent to the main temple. Neatly raked sand surrounded its perimeter. 

Villanelle ducked through the doorway. This wide room had fresh calligraphy scrolls displayed on the walls. The white, beige, and dark wood palette evoked a soothing atmosphere. Villanelle leaned against a pillar with her hands in her pockets as the Keeper studied a scroll. The harsh ringing of his phone shattered the quiet. He answered it brusquely and paced the room while he conversed. Villanelle let him get progressively more worked up, until he stormed past her pillar. She stuck out her foot. 

The Keeper went sprawling across the floor. Villanelle promptly smashed his phone. Then she grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and steadily pounded his head into the floor; wet thuds became smacking crunches, then cracks, until the floor splintered along with the Keeper’s entire face. His slick forehead left bloody streaks along the wood, stained it darker than it already was. Villanelle ripped the USB from its lanyard and exited the building without a backwards glance. 

Later on, when the sequence was uploaded to the iPad and Villanelle had vacantly poured herself steaming tea, she would wonder why she could not sink her emptiness. In between delicate sips, she would contemplate abandoning the mission altogether and disappearing into the bamboo groves. As the rain pattered on the tea house roof, she would pretend not to feel the feeling of missing speared into her heart. And by the time she had plotted her next destination, pulled onwards by some invisible cord of fate, Villanelle would admit to herself that murder, without Eve there to appreciate it, was no longer quite satisfying enough. 


	11. The Unwanted Gift

Anna’s apartment still stank of death.

Prowling between the rooms, Villanelle was struck by how everything seemed to be frozen in time. The neat beige and gunmetal grey painted walls; Anna’s meticulous wool knitting patterns hanging from them, along with framed paintings and gilded icons of the Orthodox Christian faith; the wooden bookshelves groaning under the weight of countless language learning books, course readers, atlases, and travel photography collections; the ugly, paled lamps and peeling radiators; the vases and suitcases and vintage apparel bags; Max’s armchair with the blanket that Anna had knit for him, the one emblazoned with a cute cactus and desert colours; and the bloodstain on the carpet by the couch, where Anna had blown her brains out. 

Even the motionless air remained stale in Anna’s bedroom. The curtains were drawn aside, allowing mid-morning sunlight to bathe the desk. Stacks of books lay open on both sides of Anna’s propped open, but drained, laptop. Max’s favourite vinyl jazz records leaned against the side of the display shelf. His Ph.D. diploma in Russian literature, along with his various translation books and unfinished manuscripts, were neatly held together by strained elastics.

Villanelle sat half-upright against the bed’s headboard. The sex she’d had with Anna here had always been suffocated by the punishing hand of God. Anna, with her emerging wrinkles that creased whenever Villanelle made her laugh; Anna, with the perpetually mournful set of her face; Anna, with the fullness of her lips and fragile tenderness in her hands; Anna had always cried afterwards, always lamented and clutched Villanelle fearfully, maybe preciously, even while her gaze reviled Villanelle.  

Anna had preferred giving and taking pleasure in silence, so it had been Villanelle’s pleas and gasps and cries that melted into the pillows, into the sheets, into the knit covers, into the side of the bed where Anna’s pine-tinged scent was pressed, into the side of the bed where Max slept soundly, unaware that Villanelle had once impressed Anna with uninterrupted, perfectly articulated French curses and phrases while Anna fucked her with adamant fingers. 

Those last few days before Villanelle’s arrest, before Anna’s condemnation and repulsion and horror, Villanelle had come over to the apartment after school for her usual French lesson. Anna had baked cake. Villanelle had set the table, as was their regular routine, then sat quietly while Anna bustled in the kitchen. The cake was celebratory; Anna had finally stolen away enough of the household money to afford sending Villanelle to Sorbonne in Paris.

She’d looked so proud then, pushing the envelope towards Villanelle across the table. Villanelle had placed her hand on top of Anna’s, feeling _sheltered,_ feeling _fulfilled,_ feeling _right._ She liked these stable, quiet, safe moments; they ate or they talked or Villanelle sat in Anna’s lap while Anna stroked her hair, or Villanelle read to Anna while she was in the bathtub, or they folded laundry or they flipped through photo albums of the school trips they’d taken over the years.

And that afternoon, that warm, hazy, surreal afternoon that Anna had shown Villanelle the money, gifted her with a brighter path to the future-that was the afternoon that they’d fucked on Max’s chair. Leisurely, breathlessly, tempestuously, Villanelle had given herself to Anna; and Anna, oh Anna, had let herself be taken apart by Villanelle’s hands. It was the best sex they’d ever had because at the end, Anna hadn’t looked doomed. Rather, she radiated with possibility and hope. She’d looked at Villanelle like she loved her more than she feared her. 

Anna ushered Villanelle into the armoire at the sound of Max’s heavy footsteps trudging upstairs to the apartment. Villanelle hid there, heard them arguing over the money; Max exploded in fury when he’d looked at his bank statements and Anna had bravely lied to his stupid, bespectacled face, claiming that she’d donated the money to the university’s expansion of the language department. 

They screamed and screamed. Villanelle covered her ears. But she could still hear Anna and Max screaming. Screaming and screaming like her father had screamed when he was drunk, like Villanelle screamed when she fled from him through the dim house, screaming so loudly that God could hear her vocal chords tear and would surely come to protect her, if only he was listening. 

In the aftermath, Anna had cradled Villanelle’s head. She smelled of fresh laundry detergent, contrasted by the chaotic energy that still charged the air. Max had gone back outside; from the bedroom window, Anna watched him kick stray beer bottles around the playground, until Villanelle had turned Anna’s head and kissed her. 

But Anna had recoiled almost immediately. Her fingernails dragged across Villanelle’s skin, almost breaking the surface, so sharply that Villanelle felt any traces of peace suddenly disappear. She’d said it then, right to Anna’s pained face, that the only reason she liked Max was because he had a penis; and Anna had yelled something in response, something tearful and awful, something that made Villanelle burn and burn with shame, and Villanelle had stumbled out of the apartment, choking on rage, crying and crying all the way back to the hearse of a room she was renting at the time. 

And if there was one thing, _just one fucking thing_ , that she absolutely _hated_ Anna for, it was for planting the seed of normalcy within Villanelle, knowing that it had no hope to flourish in such malnourished soil. 

Villanelle rolled over now, clutching her stomach. Her Chanel handbag rested at the foot of the bed. She reached for it weakly. Knocked it over. The iPad slipped out, rumbling. Villanelle ignored it and peered underneath Anna’s bed instead. She pulled out a large, dark purple box. Opened the lid. Her breath hitched.

She ran her fingers over the rows and rows of letters. They were grouped together by year, then by season. Shuddering, she opened the envelopes, drew the letters out, felt her eyes sting as she read her own words. Flowing cursive script covered pages and pages; some were creased from the force of Anna’s grip, others were fondly folded and re-folded, others were stained with drops that smudged a few words. The paper was yellowed from time and lined with traces of envelope corners. Even the stickers that Villanelle had stuck beside the scrawled addresses were kept in place.

The letter box was just like the apartment, Villanelle thought, with Anna’s obsessive need to preserve the moment, the memory, to keep it just the way it was. So she wouldn’t forget? So Villanelle would still be able to recognize everything, in the event that she one day returned? So that Anna could stop the relentless march of time? 

A terrible feeling welled up inside Villanelle. She scattered the letters onto the bed. Raced into the kitchen and came back with a half whittled down candle. The wick was promptly lit thanks to a stray box of matches, and Villanelle touched each letter to the flame. It was a small one, but it quickly burned the dry paper, collapsing corners inward and melting glowing holes. Ashes crumpled onto Anna’s bed. 

The iPad rumbled again. Villanelle admitted herself to the home screen. She ignored Konstantin’s incoming FaceTime call to instead scroll through Eve’s most recent notes and internet search items. Villanelle tilted her head in curiosity; the terms and themes were focused on distinctly female serial killers who had formed partnerships with other like minded women.

Rosemary West. Aileen Carol Wuornos and her Czech counterpart, Jaroslava Fabianova. Gwendolyn Graham and Cathy Wood.

Villanelle’s eyebrows shot up as she read their long list of victims, their especially revolting methods, and their twisted interpersonal dynamics. Some of them even made Villanelle look like a saint, and that caused her to huff disdainfully. Eve’s notes indicated standard things like time period, geographic location, upbringing, and age. But what interested Villanelle were Eve’s haphazard, dispersed thoughts on how she saw herself reflected in these murderous women. And most interestingly, how she related her own relationship with Villanelle to these women’s depraved trysts. 

By now, the iPad was rumbling frequently. Villanelle finally answered Konstantin’s FaceTime call out of sheer annoyance. While she moved into the living room, he came into focus looking like his usual grouchy self.

“What do you want, Konstantin?”  
  
“Yes Villanelle, I am well, thank you for asking. And how are you?”

“Annoyed. What is it?”  
  
“I am checking on you.”  
  
“Yes. And it is annoying, thank you for asking.”  
  
Konstantin smirked. “Obviously I should not have worried. You are still alive.”

“Of course.” Villanelle placed the iPad against a cheap vase with dead roses in it. The camera angle tilted slightly. “Are you with your family?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“We will be eating soon. Have you eaten?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“When I was hungry.”  
  
“Villanelle!”  
  
“Yesterday,” she sighed. 

Konstantin’s face darkened. “I recognize that painting.”  
  
Villanelle glanced behind her. It was the painting of Red Square above the couch, depicted with gloriously accurate and vibrant brush strokes.  
  
“It is a good painting!”  
  
“Villanelle...you are at Anna’s place?”  
  
She stared back at Konstantin’s stone-cold eyes. His gaze sent shivers through her even with the screen and virtual distance between them. 

“Yes.”

Konstantin swore in Russian. “What are you doing? Why are you wasting time in Moscow?” 

“It’s important to try and resolve conflicts with a person while they’re alive,” Villanelle replied calmly. “I think it’s supposed to be part of the whole good person thing.”

“But Anna is dead.”  
  
“This is not about Anna.”

Konstantin scratched his beard, looking quite like a bear that had been caught rampaging around the bramble bush.  
  
“You’ve given me a busy life. I like a challenge. I have to know in advance what you will do, although I somehow cannot get it right all of the time. I have to know where you are going to turn up next, where you have been. I always have to be one jump ahead, to make the proper arrangements, so that I can be there, where you are. Sometimes I imagine that I am too late, and that you are dead. Or the Twelve have skinned you alive and I could not stop them, and then I watch you die. Really, Villanelle, there are nights when I get no sleep.”  
  
“Too bad.”

“If you die because you are stupid, what will happen to Eve?”  
  
Villanelle eyed Konstantin frostily. She kept her tone cheery. “Nothing. Because you are supposed to be watching her.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“And?”

“I know that she is still with Carolyn.”  
  
“They are too long together.”

Konstantin nodded.

Villanelle’s pulse picked up. Her cheeriness took on a mocking slant. “If I return to London, and something has happened to Eve, I will find your safehouse, Konstantin. And then I will stuff your family in an oven instead of a cupboard, and I will make you watch them being cooked alive. Okay?”

“I believe you, Villanelle. But I was going to tell you my address anyway, because you should return to London. Now. Especially if you are so worried about Eve.”

He gave the safehouse address to Villanelle, as if he expected her to immediately act upon every snap of his fingers like a whipped dog. She committed the address to memory but remained still. 

“What does Carolyn want with Eve?”  
  
“That, I do not know. Truly.”  
  
“Then what did you see?”  
  
“Carolyn only let me into MI6 once since you left London. I saw Eve in a white room, just sitting at a table. She seemed to be waiting.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
Konstantin shrugged. “For Carolyn to come back, probably. They are just talking, Villanelle.”  
  
“Then why this urgency for me to come back to London?”

“Carolyn’s son, Kenny, he is gone. And that other guy, with the curly hair and expensive clothes-”

Villanelle wracked her memory. “Hugo?”

“I suppose, yes. He is dead. Shot by the Cleaners.”

Villanelle shrugged, tried to keep the elation out of her voice. “You want me to come to his funeral or something? I could find that black dress again, it was nice to wear for Eve-”

“I want you out of Moscow. You are not safe there.”  
  
“I am not safe in London either. Even with you, in your _safe_ house, with your crazy family.” 

In Konstantin’s silence, Villanelle’s face became bland, smooth, devoid of all expression.  
  
“Do you remember what you told me when you started my training?”  
  
“I said a lot of things.”  
  
“Yes. You always liked to do the talking too much. Anyway, I didn’t want to kill on my very first job-”  
  
“I remember, you were very stubborn. Nothing has changed.”  

“You told me, ‘Life is the unwanted gift, Villanelle. You are relieving people of it. What is the problem?’ And when you put it like that, I did not have a problem with the killing anyone, anymore.”

“Okay.” Konstantin grimaced at the sound of Irina’s distant shouts, which were soon joined by the calls of his wife to come downstairs and eat. “If you are not out of Moscow by tonight, I will come there myself and drag you away by your ear.”

“Don’t worry,” said Villanelle softly, “I will be gone by then. And we will talk again when I have the next USB. Okay, goodbye Konstantin!” 

Villanelle ended the call, traipsed back to the bedroom, and shoved the iPad into her handbag. She threw open the armoire, shuffled through Anna’s dresses and blouses and skirts. Villanelle glanced at Anna’s makeup bag, at her shoe collection. Then Villanelle let a small smile lift the corners of her stiff mouth as she picked an outfit that Anna most certainly would have approved.

* * *

Moscow’s largest psychiatric institute was made up of several conjoined, squat, Communist era buildings. They were fenced together by a concrete wall topped with barbed wire. All the windows were barred.

Inside, the wards obviously hadn’t been repaired for ages: the yellow paint on the walls had turned grey, the vinyl floor covering had many holes and some sections were coming off entirely. The bedsheets and pajamas were supposed to be changed once a week, and the wards were supposed to be cleaned daily, but judging by the sour smell of cigarettes and the foul stench pervading the main hall, this was not the case.

Villanelle checked her handbag in at the front desk; cellphones and any other devices were not allowed, but she was informed that she could make calls from the doctor’s office. The nurses eyed her suspiciously, whispered amongst themselves about her outfit: a sunshine yellow, expensive French designer’s dress that seemed to be soaked in decadent perfume. Villanelle left a floral scent in her wake as her heels echoed down the long hallways. 

She passed unshaven men wearing boring uniforms, wandering through the corridors. She skirted wailing women and surly teenagers that talked to themselves. They all roamed around like animals in a cage: back and forth, with no apparent purpose, looking down or staring into space. Halfway up the corridor, three nurses sat on the bench in front of the cafeteria, herding patients in and out. Villanelle hurried along, kept her eyes fixed straight ahead.

She used to believe that as she walked among people, she was mysterious, an enigma. But here, it seemed as if everyone had always known her, perhaps as if they had read her like an open book and expected her to one day turn up here. Villanelle felt cold. In this place, she could not project a false self; vulnerability split her open like a hammer cracked stone. Here, her family was known, her lineage, her history, her capabilities, and even her failures. 

Villanelle’s eyes darted everywhere around her. She choked back a wave of bile that rose up in her throat, locked a scream behind her teeth as she approached this ward’s checkpoint. She suddenly wanted to experience a sensation of being freed, if only for a moment, from the weight of her body. She wouldn’t want to over do it, no-just to hang suspended for a reasonable period. Maybe until she could slip under delirium; she had heard of that before, the concept of induced delirium, when a patient was kind of “infected” with other patients’ delusions, and started to behave exactly the same. 

The young woman sitting behind the bulletproof glass glanced up when Villanelle announced herself. 

“Marta Poslovina. I am here to see Antoljevna Astankova.” 

“One moment, please.” She typed away. Her eyes filled with sympathy. “Miss Poslovina, because this is the Alzheimer’s ward, patients may have these moments of lucidity where it becomes clear to them that they are losing their memories. I have to explain the visitor’s procedure for you.”

“Get on with it.” 

“Did you know Antol?”

“Yes.”

“What is your relation?”

Villanelle crossed her arms. “Cut the shit and get to the part where you tell me what happens when I walk through those doors.”

“Please Miss Poslovina, do not be angry! I am only a volunteer here.” The young woman nervously rushed through her instructions. “Go in. Straight down the hall until you come to two halls that split off. Take the right one, and Mister Astankova is in the fifth room. But be careful,” she added as Villanelle went away, “he has a violent history and he may not even recognize you!”

It was like the ward was slowly fading with each step that Villanelle took. Residents approached her with modest curiosity, some of it co-mingled with anger at her graceful movement and clear destination. Villanelle swept past a fading floral pattern on a swath of wallpaper that was interrupted by an unused corkboard. When she came to Antol’s room, she hesitated. Her heart pounded. Her head was on fire. Her hands shook. Very, very slowly, Villanelle turned the door handle and quietly stepped inside the room. 

Antol was crouched before a row of potted plants, facing away from the door. Black earth covered the grimy floor around him. He wore denim overalls with no shirt on underneath, his skin deeply tanned from working out in the garden under the watchful eye of his nurse. His shoulders were still broad but slumped forward. His height remained imposing, yet his current hunched posture gave the impression that his body was like a half-crunched can of soda.

He fumbled for a trowel; Villanelle kicked the gardening tool out of his reach.

Which was when Antol finally acknowledged another presence in the room by looking up. His lined face was clean shaven. Villanelle gazed upon it with disgust, feeling immensely ashamed that she unmistakably shared certain features such as the piercing hazel eyes, the blonde hair, and the cruel sneer. 

Antol eyed Villanelle the way he always had, as far back as she could remember: like not only was Villanelle an eternal disappointment, but also that he could already see what kind of life she was going to have, and it was too late to do anything that would not categorize her as a failure in his eyes. Villanelle felt that familiar curdling in her stomach, that acidic hatred and unstoppable rage building. Her hands balled into fists. She breathed shallowly, feeling as if she was again the whipped dog and Antol was the collar that suffocated her.

Villanelle withdrew all the way across the other side of the room. Where he couldn’t touch her.

When he spoke, his voice was rusty from disuse and he grated out Russian like unoiled gears trying to gather enough momentum. 

“Where is my garden? Why are there no flowers?”

Villanelle stared silently. 

Antol blinked down at the sagging plants, the barren soil. He wiped his dirty hands on the front of his overalls. His eyes bored through Villanelle, but she did not flinch. He looked without truly seeing. She raised her chin and spoke calmly in Russian.

“You know, I killed them all,” said Villanelle. “My cousins and half-sisters and half-brothers. I burned down the house with them all inside, so they wouldn’t have to suffer your violations anymore.” 

Her father had taught her how to press a rifle’s stock into her shoulder and to lean her cheek against it so that she could shut one eye and line up the sights on her target- sometimes sparrows and squirrels and rats, other times just the fat pine tree across the yard-to hold her breath and then coolly squeeze the trigger.

She used to dream of getting him in her sights. 

“I should have killed you,” Villanelle continued. “I wanted to, in case you are wondering. For my whole life. But it was better to make it look like you had killed them all instead. Because I did not want to lose Anna at the time. And I wanted you to rot in here and die.”

Antol squinted at her. His hands hung limply at his sides. A strange gleam coloured his eyes. Villanelle’s shone like flints as she advanced on him. 

“Except you are still alive.”

He stumbled away from her weakly. When his legs met the iron of his bed, his knees buckled and he toppled onto the squealing mattress.

“It is a bit ironic, don’t you think? That you cannot remember what you have done, that you cannot really see my face. But that I _do_ remember everything and I _recognize_ your ugly face.”

Anton muttered something to himself. Villanelle retrieved the trowel from the corner of the room and hefted it. 

“I thought about not killing you. On the bus over here, you know. I thought maybe you might say sorry or something, and we could have a nice _resolution_.” 

Villanelle giggled without a trace of humour. 

“You have nothing. You are nothing. I have everything. I have a woman who loves me, I have her forever. Her name is Eve. Despite everything that I have done, everything you did to me, she...she loves me. And I love her. It is enough to live on. More than enough.”

Villanelle considered the gardening tool philosophically, turned it over, wiped some dirt off. 

“So I thought to myself, why would I kill a man who has nothing? I would get nothing from it. Not even a feeling. I already have everything! And then I thought to myself, there are too many men like you out there. One less man might not make much of a difference. But it does,” Villanelle emphasized. “To me.”

She bent down, momentarily lowered herself to Antol’s level, and put the trowel in his hand. He stared at her blankly. Villanelle stared back, hoping for a flash of recognition. She sharpened her tone to a sickly sweet edge.

“Are you listening to me?”

Antol nodded. 

“Do you want to make a garden?”

Antol nodded more vigorously. 

“Can you remember what to do with that?” 

Villanelle tapped the trowel. Antol shook his head. 

“Where is my garden?” he asked again. “Why are there no flowers?”

“Your garden is inside you! That’s right,” Villanelle nodded along, “you must dig inside yourself to make your garden. And when you are dead and the worms eat from your rotting body, you will make pretty flowers.”

Antol smiled. His eyes glittered.

“Now, I will help you to make it.” Villanelle imitated the digging and scooping motions of the trowel against her neck. “Use what you are holding, use it! Dig inside yourself and make your garden!”

Antol obeyed. Villanelle stepped back to avoid the blood spray as he rammed the dull end of the trowel into the soft flesh of his neck, over and over again, Her eyes widened, her lips twisted into a beatific smile, she breathed in deeply to absorb the scents of blood and sweat and earth that suddenly filled the dim room. She watched Antol repetitively eviscerating his own tissue and tendon, the trowel tearing through veins, blood splashing against plastic. 

A gaping hole exposed glistening sinew and bone. Antol dug into it, twisted the trowel, oblivious to his own screams. The hole widened. Blood poured. Villanelle covered her mouth. Antol rammed in the gardening tool one last time, lodged it into his neck with enough force to get it stuck almost to the hilt. A rattling sigh escaped him as his body slowly slumped to the side. 

Villanelle watched the life fade from his eyes. Then she left, feeling weightless. And finally, inescapably, free.


	12. Disciplinary Procedures

Carolyn had called Eve’s torture sessions with The Ghost “disciplinary procedures.” And if Eve could have laughed in a way that didn’t entirely dislocate her jaw, drown her lungs in lacerating pain, and make her ribs fracture, she would have. 

The first session, Eve came to realize, was merely a reintroduction between her and The Ghost. She had not immediately lashed out at Eve, she had not raised her voice or even spoken a single word, in fact. She just stared at Eve. Silently. It was the silence that made everything worse, the suffocating, sterilizing silence, as deafening and all-encompassing as the maddeningly white room. 

Eve preferred her own screams and pleas and rage-infused roars to the silence. She could handle the sounds of her own body breaking, the thuds and crunches and snaps and cracks and wet pounding. Anything, anything except for the silence.

The Ghost luxuriated in it. She stayed completely silent and methodical. Eve couldn’t tell if the braces on The Ghost’s arms were there to support her convalescence from her own torture injuries, or if they were there to actually enhance the force and precision of her strikes. 

With that first blow to Eve’s stomach, the torture began. Sometimes, The Ghost mostly used her fist fists. Sometimes, she came out of the mirror room with a steel rod that fell heavily across Eve’s back, her knees, her stomach. Other times, The Ghost kicked Eve viciously with rugged boots. 

Air wheezed from Eve’s bruised lips. She raised her leaden arms to shield her face. The rod slammed down, fractured three fingers on her left hand. Her wrist felt disjointed. She couldn’t see anything past her blurry, stinging vision, didn’t want to hear anything over her own howls.

These were the times when Eve collapsed to the floor and writhed uncontrollably, shamelessly contorting her body in a futile attempt to dodge the kicks (which were sometimes also combined with the rod). This only seemed to invite The Ghost to swiftly add more and more kicks, on Eve’s chest, in her stomach, between her legs, at the base of her taught spine, on her shins and elbows, in her ribs. 

Sometimes Eve was beaten until she could hardly stand, then dragged by her hair to a corner, flung onto the polished white floor of the room, given scraps of seconds to heave some air into her lungs, then beaten again. 

Oh, she had tried to fight. The first time, she bobbed and weaved as much as her unstable arms and legs allowed. She scuttled away from The Ghost, shuffled across the room, slid uselessly down the curved, comb-like walls. Attempted to tear the wires down from the ceiling to use them as a whip or something, anything, anything at all that wouldn’t leave her so exposed. 

She tried keeping the table between them, until The Ghost smashed the chair over Eve’s head. The only reason Eve blearily realized that she’d blacked out was because she regained consciousness from the concentrated slaps and punches against her face; she couldn’t even open both of her eyes because the right one was sealed shut with crusted blood and a swelling, dark bruise. 

The whole time, The Ghost was silent. Not a drop of emotion leaked from her eyes. Not a single movement came from passion; rather, it sprung from economy of motion and effectiveness. Eve tried to claw at her face, tried to seize her wrists, tried to lash out and catch her by surprise, only to be met a sheen of impassivity.

Eve stopped fighting back when it dawned on her that The Ghost _wanted_ her to. She would let Eve lurch forward to try to land blows against The Ghost’s face, to try to kick and shove her; The Ghost allowed Eve to come at her with hysterical strength, only for her to calmly sidestep, or propel Eve past her using Eve’s own momentum, or to interrupt Eve’s disarray with crushing blows that brought Eve to her knees. 

Then The Ghost disappeared at various intervals. Eve paced the perimeter of the room, trailed her damaged hands against the walls and the faint seams where the doors noiselessly opened and closed, yelled at her reflection in the two-way mirror and banged on it desperately. There didn’t seem to be any pattern or predictability to when The Ghost would return, or for how long she would be away. Was it minutes or hours? Days or weeks? It felt like months to Eve. 

During these reprieves, Carolyn would come to the room. Eve sat at the table, her hands placed delicately in front of her, and she would stare straight ahead. Carolyn didn’t always come into Eve's view; indeed, this gave Eve a sinister feeling that whenever Carolyn was at her elbow, just out of sight. It was Carolyn who was behind everything! It was, it was, of course it was. 

Eve would close her eye to try and shut out Carolyn’s caustic remarks. Memories stood out in Eve’s mind disconnectedly, like pictures with blackness all around them. Her heart became a stone, assaulted by the trickling water of Carolyn’s voice that cleaved through it. Whenever Eve’s mind drifted to Villanelle, she absent-mindedly stroked the place on her trembling finger where the plastic ring had been. 

Eve’s stomach growled. Her throat was parched. Sleep wasn’t an option. She kept herself focused by dipping into the pain coursing through her body. She dug her sharp nails into the stripped skin of her forearm, or poked her finger into a leaking wound on her side, or leaned more weight onto her throbbing foot. With her teeth, she tore off strips of her blouse to tightly wrap around her fractured fingers like a splint; other strips were used to soak up blood and to staunch its flow from her very worst injuries. Eve held one spit-soaked strip against her right eye, dabbing at the dried blood and puss that still sealed it shut. Trying to pry it open made her gasp in pain, so she’d simply fixed her functional, bloodshot left eye on the marble table as Carolyn had entered the room again. 

“A broken will might recover,” she informed Eve, as if she was discussing the possibility of improving bad grades for a rebellious student. “A broken body can heal. Agony fades.”

Eve raised her eye to glare contemptuously at Carolyn and her lips quivered into a pout. She refused to turn her head as Carolyn placed herself behind Eve. Her voice was flat, cold, and ruthlessly smooth (Eve wouldn’t have been surprised if Carolyn turned out to be a cyborg, for all her mechanical demeanour). 

 “I hope there won’t be any hard feelings between us, after all. Please. You will eventually come to understand that I did what’s best for you. And for Villanelle too, of course.”

Eve’s shoulders tensed as she felt Carolyn place her hands upon them. Her grip was firm. A bit too firm. 

“Believe me, there is nothing personal about this. The Ghost has conducted herself in a most professional manner. You should learn from her example. I mean you really must maintain some level of self-respect Eve, some professional standards!”

Eve let her head hang. She remembered how soft and reassuring Villanelle’s touch had been; how she smelled like a summer’s day spent lying in the middle of a field, looking up at the clouds. 

“Do not imagine that you will be vindicated after the fact, Eve. No one will ever hear of you. I will personally make sure that you’re erased from every institutional record. You’ll be wiped from each place you’ve ever worked at or lived in or visited. Nothing will remain of you, not a name in a birth certificate or census form, not a photograph stored in your phone or computer, not a memory in a living brain. You will be annihilated, after the fact. You do not exist. You will never have existed.”

The Ghost came back to beat Eve for ten or twelve hours at a stretch. She was in constant, registered pain. But it was not just pain, this time. The Ghost pulled her hair, slapped her face, made her stand on one leg, toppled her with a blow to her stomach, made Eve lick her mud and shit stained boots, shone a glaring light in Eve’s face until her eyes ran with water, and refused to let her urinate. 

It got so bad that Eve pissed herself. Her pants were wetted, dried after a time, then wetted again. They were still wet the next time that Carolyn came into the room. If the stench bothered her, she gave no indication. She simply looked down at Eve gravely and rather sadly. Carolyn’s face, seen from below, looked coarse and worn, with pouches under the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin.

“All you have to do,” said Carolyn, “is to renounce Villanelle.”

Eve’s burst of harsh laughter ended in a gasp of pain. 

“I won’t!”  
  
“Don’t protect her. She wouldn’t do the same for you.”

“You don’t know that.”

The final session with The Ghost left Eve a whimpering, cowering, groveling mess. She didn’t bother to crawl to the table, to drag herself up into a sitting position. From her angle on the floor, Eve saw Carolyn’s black loafers come into view. 

Eve spoke hoarsely as blood bubbled from her broken lips, loosened teeth, and swollen gums. 

“I...have...questions.”  
  
“I’d be very surprised if you didn’t.”

Carolyn crouched down, cocked her head to the side, narrowed her eyes at Eve. 

“Why...The Ghost?”

“The Ghost understands discretion.” 

“If you...wanted that...then why...did you ask Villanelle and me...to do this for you...in the first place?”

“It took a bit longer than I anticipated for Kenny to track down The Ghost again, that is all.”

Eve closed her eye. “Did you...let her into...The Twelve?”

“Surviving the Demon With No Face was most impressive. Naturally, I made her an offer in line with the directive of The Twelve.”

“What did you...offer The Ghost?”  
  
“Protection for her children.”   
  
“Like...how you’re...protecting...Konstantin’s family?”

Carolyn flicked away a speck of dirt on her sleeve. Her tone was deceptively calm and patient when she addressed Eve, again with the air of a teacher taking great pains with a less than ideal student. 

“You know, this reminds me...When Villanelle was in that awful Russian prison, we had a very productive chat.”

“About...what?”

“About you, Eve.”

Eve opened her eye. She focused on Carolyn until her gaze blurred. 

“What...do you...want?”

“The Keepers have obviously proven themselves incompetent this far. But we can’t just leave the remaining intelligence loose out there in the world.”

“You have...The Ghost now.”

Carolyn inclined her head. “I doubt she’ll outpace Villanelle in securing the remaining intelligence.”

“So why...me?”

“When we’ve got all the intelligence, things will be different. Unfortunately, you’ve proven yourself immensely stubborn and incompetent in your current role. Not to mention...inflexible. It seems you don’t take too well to discipline. Of any kind.” Carolyn smirked. “I was the same way. So in light of this, I thought that I would offer you another role.”

“What...do you mean?”

“Eve, I want you to join The Twelve.”

Eve attempted to chuckle. She managed to squeeze out a strained breath. 

“I don’t...like your...recruitment methods.”

“Please, Eve. This is a serious offer. I want you to join The Twelve as Villanelle’s new Handler.”

“No,” responded Eve sharply.

“Take some time to think about it.”

“You can have...my answer...now, Carolyn. No.” 

“Don’t be silly, Eve.”

“You said that...I always...have a...choice...right?” 

Carolyn’s nostrils flared. “Correct. An informed choice, at that. So you should know that I’ve told The Ghost to hold off on killing Villanelle until you’ve properly considered my offer.”

“No.”

“You’re not thinking clearly. I sincerely hope your real choice takes into account that it’s not only yourself that you have to think about.”

“No.”

Carolyn sighed. “The stiff upper lip is not always best, Eve.”

Eve looked Carolyn dead in the eyes. A slow smile spread across her bloated face. 

“I know Villanelle...better than anyone. Better...than she...knows...herself. And...The Ghost? Doesn’t...stand a chance.” 

* * *

The city of Córdoba in Spain was a dreamy collection of winding white washed streets, jasmine filled patios, and Moorish architectural treasures such as the Palacio de Viana. Its rustic facade of drab beiges and browns only served to make its tranquil courtyards and lush gardens planted with cypresses, orange trees and myrtles stand out colourfully. Palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze, which carried the scent of spices to Villanelle as she exited the palace. 

She came out of the west wing pocketing a silver USB. Some stray tourists looked at her in a puzzled manner, but she glared at them darkly until they turned their attention back to the vine covered arches and the sky-blue shutters of the second floor. Villanelle had no interest in the palace’s vast art and antique collection, but she had found the Keeper tending to it earlier that day. A quick snap of her neck as she’d paused to wipe her creased brow while she gazed out the window ensured that Villanelle would be able to have a light lunch and still catch the next train on time-long after the security team discovered the Keeper was stuffed into one of her own display cases. 

The sequence merrily uploaded into the iPad in the time it took for Villanelle to leave the old quarter and make her way down a promenade. She ducked into narrow alleys and offshoots of unpaved streets just to avoid the steady stream of tourists clogging the main routes. Cars honked their horns, obscuring the whimsical sound of wind chimes until Villanelle got close enough to brush past them. Street vendors shouted their wares. Laughing children chased dogs through the crowds. The locals were distinguished from the tourists because only the locals were oblivious to the ancient presence of Mezquita, Córdoba’s multiarched, lustrously decorated great mosque. A Christian cathedral was plonked right in the middle of it in a harmonious fusion amidst the vibrant columns; its tall bell tower presided over the area, waiting somberly. 

Villanelle ate her fill at a nearby tapas bar, then decided to buy herself a gift to celebrate her progress. She walked around for a bit, window shopping. The perfume shop tucked away in the corner of a courtyard invited her to explore it thanks to its heady scents. It wasn’t until Villanelle reached for her wallet and peeked inside that she realized that the meal had cost her more than she’d anticipated. Blushing with shame, she barely managed to inform the owner that she would be back later with more money. 

And when she did return later that afternoon with copious amounts of money, Villanelle upgraded her chosen bottle of perfume to the largest available size as a sort of congratulations to herself for not massacring the entire market population out irritation. Restlessness made Villanelle walk a long way to one of the most bustling plazas. Stately apartment buildings flanked it on all sides, along with the usual restaurants and stores bearing fluctuating tides of people. 

Villanelle found a shaded table and sank down onto one of the metal chairs. She watched people come and go, got up and drank from the large fountain playing in the plaza’s center, peered into the cloudless sky once she’d gotten back to the chair, and observed the motions of her chest as she breathed steadily. A couple kissing in greeting made her heart skip a beat; she clenched and unclenched her hands, turned her head away stiffly, and distracted herself by getting out the iPad.

It didn’t take long for Konstantin to answer her FaceTime call. He looked to be outside his safehouse, resting on the stairs with a glass of lemonade beside him. 

“You have done well, I hope?” 

“When have I not done well? Tell me that, Konstantin.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have always done well. More than well.”

Villanelle beamed. “You are being very nice today.”

“When have I not been very nice? Tell me that, Villanelle.”

“Well, there was that time you made me work with Nadia again...”

Konstantin took a long drink. “Where are you?”

“Córdoba, in Spain.”

“Do you like it?”

“I have not decided yet. But it has good perfume.” 

Villanelle took the decadent bottle out, turned it this way and that for Konstantin to see, and slowly unscrewed its cap. 

“There are only three USBs left. Have you thought about how we will celebrate when I am done?”

Konstantin shrugged. Villanelle stuck her tongue out at him. “You may be nice, but you are not much fun.”

Villanelle inhaled the perfume deeply. She lightly sprayed the pulse points on her neck a bit, then promptly sealed the bottle again to save the rest for that special occasion when she reunited with Eve. 

She kept talking to Konstantin for a while. More people came and went, passed her by to cross the plaza, lingered to ask her for a smoke, begged her for spare change. She waved them all off, struggled to concentrate on Konstantin. At first she thought it was because he was droning on about something that had nothing to do with her. Yet...no matter how hard she squinted at the screen, Konstantin was getting blurrier and blurrier. Sweat broke out on her forehead and she found that talking was as hard as chewing through leather. 

Villanelle’s head hurt. Nausea roiled deep in her gut. She loosened the top buttons of her blouse, but still, she couldn’t breathe. Her heart pounded and pounded, her vision blistered. Konstantin was yelling, it seemed, but then why was he so quiet and far away? 

Ragged, constricted gasps wracked Villanelle. She rubbed her throat, slammed a fist onto the table, hit her chest over and over again to stimulate her abruptly slowed heart. Sweat poured down her face, into her wide, alarmed eyes. Choked words pushed themselves past the foam gathering at her mouth, but there was no volume to them. She clawed at her throat now, at her lungs, too. Konstantin bellowed, shouted her name again and again. 

The world spun. Colours drained from the sky. The sounds of traffic and sparkling water and excited people faded. There was not enough air, not enough time, not nearly enough time-

Villanelle collapsed. 

Somewhere in the distance, the cathedral’s bell tolled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, we’re halfway through this fic! 
> 
> Thank you for investing time and care into reading so far. 
> 
> From the bottom of my heart, my deepest gratitude goes out to agapius, NotesFromTheChamber, KillngEveKindofLove, and humeforks for their incredible support, encouraging comments, and dedication to enjoying reading this fic as much as I enjoy writing it! You’re all lovely and I’m so, so damn thankful for you. 
> 
> I promise that the second half of this fic will be even more exciting (as well as darker and bloodier) than the first. There are plenty more twists coming up! I certainly don’t expect you to agree with them all, however all I ask is that you stick around until this is a complete work and you can judge it as such.
> 
> In the meantime, kudos, bookmarks, recs, and comments are more than welcome! What do you enjoy about this story? What are some areas for improvement? I’m always open to feedback, so please do feel free to share your thoughts. They help me grow as a writer and only enhance my writing experience! 
> 
> I truly appreciate everyone who reads this fic. Your kindness and inspiration keeps me going. I hope you enjoy the rest!


	13. A Sentimental Old Man

_I am too old for this._

Konstantin checked his watch again. He’d taken the first available plane from London to Córdoba. But that still left a gap of seven long hours between the moment he’d witnessed Villanelle crumple before him, to this very moment, where he was listening to a young man recount how he’d found and brought her to the hospital.

Konstantin closed his eyes. He could not escape images of Villanelle’s pained face, her jagged breaths, the confusion and panic swirling in her eyes, how she’d fallen so suddenly, leaving an empty chair and the sounds of the fountain in her wake. 

A hard, cold knot formed in Konstantin’s stomach the more vividly the young man’s frantic, guttural Arabic explained the situation. 

“As I already told you, I am an Uber driver. I was heading to my car, when I saw this pretty woman collapse. She is very pretty, yes? Even knocked out, she is very pretty.”

“Yes, yes,” grumbled Konstantin. The language rested low in his throat, unfurling slowly like a banner in the arid wind. “And you took her to this hospital?”

“I did. Right here to the sixth floor, to this room.” The young man jerked his chin to the closed door. “She is still in there. Knocked out.”

“You have done a good job. You can go now.”

“I want to stay here until she wakes up. So she can thank me in person. She is very, very pretty. Do you think she will give me her number?”

Konstantin chuckled. “When is your next shift?”

“Whenever someone calls me for a ride.”

“Does anyone know you are in here?”

“No. It’s okay, I will wait here.”

“I have a reward for you. Downstairs. Come with me.”

The young man trailed behind Konstantin, who took a sharp turn down an alley and muttered something about it being a shortcut to his car. Seconds later, he locked the young man in a chokehold. Konstantin nudged his corpse daintily once he’d shuddered and gurgled to death, then went back into the hospital. The cameras witnessed his ascent to the sixth floor. Some nurses and doctors smiled thinly at him as they passed by; Konstantin did not return that smile.

His lips were set in a grim line. Every second that ticked away felt like a blade being dragged across his skin. A jagged pounding clouded his head. He opened the door to find Villanelle hooked up to heart and lung machines. The digital sound of intermittent beeping filled the small, still room. 

Villanelle was shrouded by thin sheets. Her breaths were so faint that Konstantin barely noticed the expansion of her chest. He peered closely at her sallow face. It was covered in sweat, so much so that her hair was matted against her forehead. Konstantin gently brushed some strands aside and let his hand rest there for a moment. 

Villanelle did not stir. The machines kept beeping. 

Walking on suddenly weakened legs, Konstantin moved to sit on a plastic chair opposite the bed. He watched the machines monitor Villanelle’s blood pressure and heartbeats, both of which dropped to basically non existent numbers, then occasionally trembled just up to the threshold of notice. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

A set of IV needles were inserted into Villanelle’s veins at various points in both her arms; they rested heavily at her sides, crumpling the sheets into abstract creases, globs of shadows, peaks and valleys of soft material trying to hide from the harsh lights overhead. Their pale glow accentuated Villanelle’s sickly pallor by crystallizing the sweat across her skin into a horrible glaze. She hadn’t looked this weak and ashen since Konstantin had recruited her from the Russian prison. 

But Villanelle was alive. She was alive. She was alive. She was _alive._

Konstantin took his head out of his shaking hands and angrily wiped his eyes as the door opened. A doctor stepped into the room. He held a clipboard with sheets upon sheets of scrawled notes. He greeted Konstantin hastily in Arabic.

“Hello, excuse me, who are you?  
  
“I’ve come to see the patient.”  
  
“But okay, who are you?”

“I-I am a diplomat.”  
  
The doctor’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Konstantin allowed his voice to break with desperation. 

“She is my daughter.” 

“So sorry. She is not in a good state.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I identified the compound in her veins as a nerve agent.”

Konstantin went numb. “What kind of nerve agent?”

The doctor’s expression lapsed into one of deep concern and somber understanding.

“You are a diplomat, yes? Surely you are familiar with the name Novichok.”

Konstantin’s brain blotted out the doctor’s voice for a moment as he recalled information from the crevices of his mind. Novichok was a Russian name, of course. It meant “newcomer”. And it also referred to a group of nerve agents developed by the Soviet Union in the 1970s and 1980s to elude international restrictions on chemical weapons. 

“Novichok has been all over the news lately. You are not a British diplomat, I hope? It killed two of them only a few months ago.”  
  
“I remember.” Konstantin cleared his throat. “What will happen to her?”

The doctor glanced at Villanelle. “She will be in coma for a week. All of the time, she is receiving injections of the drug atropine. Which helps her to keep breathing,” he added quickly when Konstantin’s face became thunderous. 

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Well, you are welcome to stay here. But not much else, I’m afraid. The drugs must do their work.”

“What do they...do?” 

“Atropine is only an antidote, not a cure. It will help your daughter recover her brain’s proper chemical balance. But even after she wakes, it takes up to two weeks to fully restore sufficient levels of nerve functioning.”

“And until then?”  
  
The doctor shrugged. “Pray.”

Contrary to the doctor’s advice, Konstantin did not spend the week praying. He barely allowed himself to sleep. The few jerky seconds of rest he did get quickly descended into nightmares that eventually erupted into him gasping awake to loom over Villanelle. Time bled on as he washed her skin with soap and water. He also rinsed her eyes periodically and gave her plenty of oxygen under the doctor’s watchful gaze.

“It was lucky that she came to the hospital right away,” he’d remarked after monitoring the machines and vigorously making notes. 

“How’s that?”

“The Novichok sample was an older one. The more recent samples from the 1980s take just a few minutes to work. But this one did not really kick in until about fifteen minutes after she was admitted. You are a lucky man.”

“Yes. I am.”

Nevermind that he did not _feel_ like a lucky man. He felt like his heart was being pulled out of his chest and meticulously cut into pieces for every second that he watched Villanelle drift in the ether, completely lost to and closed off from him. Konstantin spent the nights holding one of her cold hands in both of his own. In the dim light of the single lamp on the bedside table, he was consistently struck by their differences; his plump fingers were gnarled like the roots of an ancient tree, whereas hers were smooth, slender, teeming with dexterity and precise strength, even in their motionless state. 

By the middle of the week, the machines displayed a cascade of all Villanelle’s major life organs failing, one after another-just switching on and off: the lungs, the heart, the kidneys. The doctor adjusted her atropine dosage in response. He reiterated to a puffy-eyed Konstantin that Villanelle’s absolutely fragile condition meant that she didn’t need any additional stress once she regained consciousness.

Konstantin had paced many kilometers up and down the length of the hospital room near the end of the week. The hallway beyond periodically reeked of vinegar; the sheets were changed by increasingly nervous looking nurses that Konstantin glowered at; and he only left the room to go as far as the hospital entrance when the recycled, ominous air became too much for him to bear. 

On the day Villanelle was set to come out of her coma, the doctor waited expectantly upstairs while Konstantin perused the hospital’s gift shop. He bought a bouquet of pink roses and picked the least ugly stuffed animal he could find: a white tiger. These items were placed at the foot of Villanelle’s bed. The beeping of the machines gradually quickened along with Konstantin’s heart at the first tilt of her head. When she finally opened her eyes, Konstantin softly instructed her not to speak or to move. 

He stroked her cheek lightly, offering a warm touch against her clammy, shining skin. 

“Do you recognize me? Don’t talk. Just nod or shake your head if you can.”

She nodded. 

“Good.” Konstantin reached for the stuffed tiger. He delicately wrapped Villanelle’s fingers around it. “It is clean and...fluffy. You will like it, I know.”

The doctor hesitantly placed the bouquet by Villanelle’s head. Its scent drifted to her and she slowly turned to look at him.

“I have been treating you. Try not to be alarmed, but I must tell you...you have just woken up from a coma.”

Villanelle’s brow furrowed. Her voice was faint and there were meandering intervals between her delayed phrasing. 

“Do you...have...any...stickers?”

“Sorry? No.”

Konstantin shrugged when the doctor glanced pointedly at him. 

“What do you remember?” asked the doctor. 

“I…bought...perfume. It...smelled…nice. Then...pain. And...now this.”

“Okay. How do you feel?”

“You...are...really...a...doctor? R-really?” A long wheeze escaped Villanelle. “I...feel...like shit. Total...shit.”

Konstantin managed a strained chuckle through his tears. “She will be fine.”

He worriedly brandished his clipboard. “We’ll see.”

“What...is...happening? Where...what is...this place?” Villanelle’s dulled eyes dragged themselves left and right to somehow scan the room from her prone position. “What...is...the day?”

“Don’t worry about that now. The important thing to focus on is your recovery.”

“From...what?”

Upon obtaining Konstantin’s curt nod, the doctor replied matter-of-factly. 

“You were attacked with a nerve agent called Novichok.”

Konstantin watched Villanelle’s face twitch from shock to unbridled rage; her lips peeled back into a snarl, she gripped the edge of the bed, she glared at him fiercely and with such deep despair that Konstantin felt fresh tears drip down his cheeks. Suddenly, she thrashed and wailed. The doctor immediately pried loose the stuffed animal, tossed the roses aside, and jerked away from the bed when Villanelle’s arm flung out.

Her gaze was fixed on nothing and she didn’t respond to Konstantin sharply calling out to her. The doctor cursed when Villanelle became as rigid as a board, then cursed more loudly when she flailed around. It was clear that her legs shook, and shook so violently that the sheets slipped off the bed. She yelled. Her arms jerked again. She kept on thrashing. 

Konstantin helped the doctor quickly place Villanelle on her side. He adjusted the soft pillow beneath her head. Gradually, Villanelle stilled. Her eyes refocused. 

“What...were...we talking...about?”

“You-you’ve just had a seizure,” the doctor informed her. “Again, please do not be alarmed. You are receiving atropine and it will help you stabilize.”

“Will it stop the damage?” Konstantin asked hoarsely. 

The doctor hesitated. 

“Tell me!”

“No, it won’t stop the damage.” 

The doctor looked down at his clipboard, then at Villanelle.  

“Your long term prognosis is manageable,” he said gently. “The drugs are a great help. But I am sorry, the damage is permanent. Expect to have ongoing seizures from the nerve agent. Your thought process will slow, as will your reflexes. You will have breathing problems, too.”

Villanelle’s mouth slackened. She closed her eyes tightly.

“I must keep you here for at least another day or two. You need to keep taking atropine. It will break through your blood-brain barrier and restore proper chemical activity in your brain.”

Konstantin forced himself to leave the hospital in order to buy Villanelle acceptable underwear and clothing, which he carefully helped her put on when the doctor briefly unhooked the machines. On the day Villanelle was finally cleared to leave the hospital, he cautioned them against any sort of travel. 

“You greatly risk worsening your condition! You need to be resting now.”

“We cannot stay here.”

“I...can...travel. On...my...own.”

“I am not letting you out of my sight again,” snapped Konstantin. “If we go anywhere, we go together.”

“That is wise.” The doctor patted the medical bag that supplied more than enough doses of atropine to Villanelle. “You must give her an injection every one to two hours. No stress. No strenuous activity.”

“But can we travel?”

“It will be very unpleasant. She will vomit. Experience diarrhea. She will slip in and out of consciousness the longer your flight is. I do not recommend it at all. Just where are you going, anyway?”

“None of your business.” Konstantin tossed the doctor a thick packet of money. “Take this. Shut up. We were never here. None of this happened. Understood?”

“Yes.”

Konstantin guided Villanelle to his car. She sat sullenly for the whole ride to the airport. And she could not seem to muster the strength to even protest when he slid the needle into her veins every once in a while. The sound of her melodious voice was missing from the air; he longed to see a spark return to her intelligent eyes. With a small smile, Konstantin offered her some information that would surely lift her spirits as they boarded the plane.

“Cheer up, Villanelle. You are going back to Eve.”

* * *

London was experiencing quintessentially London weather: consistent rain, milky fog, drafts of cold brought about by gusty wind hurling down the cobblestoned streets, and moody, volatile grey skies that were covered with opaque clouds. Raindrops splashed against the townhouse windows and pattered on the roof. 

Eve glanced up idly. She contemplated how badly she actually wanted to refill her tea mug; it required getting up from her currently blanketed position on the cozy couch. Yet the warmth of the tea was soothing and unclenched the constant knot in her gut. With a groan, Eve limped over to the kitchen. The kettle was still hot. Steaming Earl Grey tea swirled into the earthenware mug. Eve gratefully grasped it tightly and carried it upstairs. 

She sat on the edge of the bed in the room she’d once occupied with Niko. The very thought of him made her scald the roof of her mouth. She yelped. Swore in Korean. Slammed the mug down on the table at her side of the bed. And sat there, listening to the rain, staring at the plastic ring that was back to its rightful place on her ring finger. 

That particular finger had healed in the time since her release from MI6, but it was permanently bent at a slightly crooked angle in comparison to her middle and fore fingers. Still, the ring fit well enough. Eve rubbed it reflexively as she listened to the rain intensify. The view outside the bedroom windows became blurry. Thunder growled in the distance. Eve held the mug again, just to give her hands something to do. 

Or maybe its heat kept her grounded amidst the clustered memories that flashed through her mind as viciously and clearly as the lightning searing between the layers of clouds. 

Villanelle telling Eve to wear her hair down, the very first time she ever saw Eve. Villanelle sending her a suitcase filled with decadent clothes and perfume, somehow knowing they would fit like a second skin. Villanelle traipsing around in Chanel, buying Eve her heart’s content worth of lingerie and suits, then kissing her madly. 

Eve lumbered downstairs again, sipping tea delicately as she went. The memories flowed most strongly in the kitchen: Villanelle eating Shepherd’s pie. Villanelle hungrily admiring the black and white cocktail dress that flattered Eve perfectly. Villanelle leaning in to smell Eve’s perfume, the knife point digging into her collarbone. Villanelle pressing her up against the sink, teasingly trailing another, much more wickedly curved knife, between her breasts. 

Beneath the moist scent of rain, Eve could still smell Notre Dame burning. 

She rubbed the plastic ring. The rest of her belongings had been returned, but she’d left them behind to be disposed of at MI6. This sense of relief, of relinquishing dead weight, stayed with Eve even when she’d dropped by the MI6 office earlier this week. Then it only became more amplified thanks to the fact that Kenny, Jess, and Hugo were nowhere to be found. There was just a wide open space, ringing with emptiness, a space that Eve could occupy all on her own; expanding and flourishing and cutting loose until she poured out the river of darkness steadily rising within. 

Its banks nearly overflowed every time that Eve glimpsed herself in a reflective surface: the toaster, the mirror in the bedroom, the bread knife. Her face was still bruised. The skin around and beneath her right eye remained darkened; whenever light slanted over that area, it had a rather ghoulish effect. 

Eve’s remaining injuries were covered easily enough by assorted blouses, an occasional well-worn jumper, and a lot of careful tilting of her body that obscured the very worst of them. In the evenings, Eve did not sleep; she spent hours in front of the mirror just staring at her naked body. She bandaged the gashes on her ribs; glowered at the ghastly bruises on her stomach and shoulders; pretended not to hear the way the bones in her legs creaked like rusty hinges when she walked; washed her hands, twice, every time that they clumsily dropped things like framed honeymoon photographs or a cereal box. Her hair had surpassed even its own previous unruly length.

Notre Dame was still in the news, but the current cycle had been overtaken by more gruesome news: the half-decomposed body of a castrated police officer was found in one of Lille’s vibrant tulip fields. INTERPOL was on high alert. The international consciousness sizzled with a rabid pulse, countries crackling to life like synapses electrifying each other. 

The townhouse ensconced Eve in its familiarity. Walls and doors and laundry and shoes and books and shelves and hardwood floors dulled the intrusion of the outside world. Eve buried herself in the scattered mess of her office. She was absorbed by her laptop screen, scrolling endless I.T. articles, AI theses, and practice runs of code that blurred the lines between simply typing out instructions and attempting to hack her own home security system. 

Over a glass of crisp, dry Chardonnay, Eve dialed the company number of Pharaday UK. The rings buzzed in her right ear, the plastic of the kitchen phone heated up as she pressed the handset against her cheek, and the buzzsaw of excitement tore through her chest every time someone picked up. Eve lied her way up through the human resources department, sometimes switching to Korean and snippets of broken English depending on who she was transferred to. 

Eventually, Eve gave her name to Amber Peel’s executive assistant and drummed her fingers against the desk until Amber picked up.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Hey, Amber. How are you holding up?”  
  
“Fine. What do you want?”  
  
“I need to talk to you.”

“And if I don’t want to talk to you?”  
  
“Then I’ll suddenly remember that I witnessed you murder your brother and conveniently forget to keep my mouth shut.”

Amber swore. Eve grinned. She clicked the top of a pen over and over again while she waited for Amber to warily move their conversation along.

“How can I possibly help you?”

“Well, I was doing some research and I came across a news snippet that reported you’d sold Pharaday to the British government. Is that true?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“It was worth it. Look, if you want to talk about media, get in touch with my PR team. Okay? I’ve got a company to run.”

“I’m not finished with you yet,” snapped Eve. “Aaron’s program isn’t just being weaponized by the government and you know that.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So you’d also know that Aaron was smart enough to build some kind of failsafe or fallout plan, or something that would protect his legacy no matter whose hands the AI fell into.”

“If you’re not going to get to the point of this harrassing phone call, I’m going to just hang up.”

“Don’t hang up before you tell me about Aaron’s USBs.”

“They’re part of a sequence. And you know that.”

“Yes. But what does it do? What is it for?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly close with my brother.” 

“Right. He thought you were too stupid for him to to share information like that. Maybe he’s right.”

Eve’s grin widened at the sound of Amber’s frustration. 

“I’m hanging up-”

“Can the sequence be corrupted?”

Silence. Eve held her breath. 

“Um, I don’t know,” Amber answered eventually. “Probably? I’m not a hacker.”  
  
“I’m not really one either. I just need to know if there’s some kind of flaw in these USBs that makes corruption possible.” 

“If there is, I don’t know how to find it.”

“Fine. Can you just...send me a blank silver USB or something?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“A clean USB, with no data on it. Send one to me. I want to study it.”  
  
“No way.”  
  
“Okay. I’ll just call the press, then.”  
  
“Wait!” A long sigh whistled out of the phone’s endpiece. “Alright. I’ll send you the silver USB. But Eve-”

She hung up triumphantly. Two days later, Amber was as good as her word. The USB arrived in a chocolate box, tucked below the top layer of decadent liqueurs. Eve raided the box, reaching out for the chocolates one by one until there were none left and she’d pried between the USB’s mechanics. 

There was nothing to upload to her laptop, no flickering, shifting sequence to interpret. Eve ran her hands through her hair. She chewed on her bottom lip as she hesitantly wrote a line of code onto the USB’s client driver. Nothing happened. She tried again. The block-lettered words _fuck you Carolyn_ appeared briefly on the screen, before Eve replaced them with curt instructions that led her to subsequently write two more complementary lines.

Half a bottle of rosé disappeared by the time Eve took a break from coding to call her mom, who picked up on the fourth ring. 

“You don’t usually call me, Eve. Are you in trouble?”

It took a moment for Eve to adjust to the sound of the rhythmic, airy Korean. Once her tongue broke through the first few syllables, her response came smoothly.

“I’m fine, mom.”  
  
“Then what do you want? I don’t understand.”  
  
“I-I just wanted to talk to you.”  
  
“Sure, Eve. That’s what you always say.”

Eve thought about cracking open another bottle of rosé, which seemed to be the only sane way of getting through this conversation.

“How are you?”  
  
“Bored and lonely. I have no grandchildren to care for.”

The chair rolled back from the desk hard enough to hit the other side of Eve’s office wall. She went to the kitchen, uncorked another bottle, and glugged straight from it. 

“Are you drinking again?” 

Eve swallowed hard. “No.”

“Is it because you’re having marriage problems again?”

“Uh...yeah. Actually that’s-that’s why I need your advice.” 

“Call your friends for advice.”

The very sudden realization that Eve didn’t really have any friends slammed into her. Wine dripped down her chin. 

“Mom, please.”

“I just got back from Kew Gardens when you called me,” she said quietly. “The cherry blossoms look like they’re going to whither.”

“That’s nice. Listen, before you get back to watching tv for the afternoon or whatever, can I just-”

“Oh, I told you last time we talked. I got rid of the television. It’s awful. There’s nothing good on. Ever. So I don’t watch anymore.”

“Mom-”

“I tried watching something about a year ago. it was this show about two women, an MI6 agent and an assassin, becoming obsessed with each other. There’s a second season now, but I like the first one better. Are you still at MI5, Eve?”

Eve carefully set the bottle down and gulped in a hiccup. “I don’t want to talk about work.”

“That’s probably best. You always said it was boring.”

“It’s recently gotten interesting.” Eve exhaled slowly. “Mom, why did you get divorced?”

“Your father was a difficult man.”

“I know. But did you still love him?”

“No. That feeling was gone by then.”

“Why?”

“Because your father was a difficult man.”

“Love is difficult when the person is difficult. I still think it’s worth it, though.”

“Oh really? What does Niko think?”

Eve scowled. “He gives up too easily.”

Her mom’s laugh tinkled through the phone. “No one will ever be as doggedly persistent as you. I’ve told you that since you were a child.”

“I know, I know.”

“I’m sure you two will sort out your problems.”  
  
“Don’t worry, I’ve been problem solving these past few days.” Eve raked her free hand through her hair. “Did you ever feel a connection with dad?”

“What do you mean?”  
  
“Y’know, a-a connection. A real, deep connection.” Eve glanced down at the plastic ring. 

“We loved each other until we didn’t. My feelings didn’t stop me from doing what I needed to do.”

“I get that. It’s just...you two never seemed passionate when I was a kid. You just functioned. Until you didn’t, I guess.”

“Marriage is functional, Eve. It is an institution. Having children is part of it. Maybe if you were a mother, you would understand what I mean and wouldn’t be having these problems with Niko.”

Eve laughed mirthlessly. “I really don’t think children are the solution here.”  
  
“Children aren’t the problem or the solution. They are a miracle.” 

“Okay.” 

“What is it you can’t solve? What do you need my advice for?”

Eve took another long swig from the bottle to brace herself. Then the words poured out. 

“I used to feel so alone. Like I was the only person in the world. I had no one to share myself with. And then, y’know...someone came along and took that loneliness away.”  
  
“Yes, Niko did come into your life when you were coping with your father’s death all by yourself.”  
  
“Right.” Eve swirled the wine in the bottle. “Sometimes, when the connection just vibrates, there’s no one else in the world. Y’know? With the right person, it’s like your thoughts and your feelings and your heartbeats just...sync. There’s nothing else outside the two of you. And it happens when they cry in your arms as you hold them. When you crawl into bed while they’re fast asleep and then they reach out to you. When you make eye contact across a crowded room and everyone else disappears. When you’re sitting next to each other, holding hands, just having conversations without even realizing how close you are...god. I live for that. For the emotional intensity that comes with that connection.”

“I had no idea you felt that way about Niko.”

Eve traced her thumb against the edge of the plastic ring. “I’ve always wanted this. I’d do anything to keep it, to have it burning inside me and to keep giving it away, just to get it reciprocated.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I’m wondering...I mean I wanted to ask you-”

“What, Eve?”

“Do you think I’m crazy? That the way I love is...too much?”

“You’ve always been this way, Eve. That’s the way you are. I don’t see why it’s a problem if you’re with the right person, like you’ve described.”

The silence between them stretched painfully.

“But I must say...it doesn’t sound like you’re talking about Niko.”

Eve choked on a mouthful of wine. “What do you mean?”

“Have your eyes been wandering? Have you committed the sin of adultery?”

“No, mom.” _Not lately._

“I hope not. It’s your duty as a wife to be faithful to your husband. Even if you don’t like him. I never had sinful thoughts, even after I divorced your father.”

“Isn’t divorce considered a sin?”

“It’s a more forgivable one than adultery!”

“If you say so.”

“I do. A wife’s duty is to be faithful to her husband. And to bear his children.”

“Then I guess I’m just a shitty wife.”

“I don’t know. You never bring up your marriage enough for me to know.”

“Okay. Well. Thanks for chatting with me, mom.” 

Eve ended the call and then held her head in her hands. The ghost of Villanelle’s perfume lingered in the air. It seemed to intertwine itself with Eve’s curls; to settle on top of her shoulders, to wrap itself between her fingers and teasingly brush against her cheeks. An aching, bottomless void ruptured Eve’s chest. She could feel the smoothness of Villanelle’s skin, see the blush in her cheeks, the wildfire surging to life in her captivating eyes. Eve collapsed onto the couch, threw a hand over her face, and wasn’t roused from her stupor until late the next morning. 

Heavy knocking assaulted the front door. Eve threw it open. Squinting past the glaring sunlight, she made out Konstantin’s hulking silhouette.

“Where’s Villanelle?”

Konstantin chuckled. “I will take you to her. Come.”

They went to The Twelve’s hotel near Norfolk Square in Paddington. Shiny offices and elegant Georgian townhouses lined the streets. Travelers came in and out of the pubs that dotted the area. Tall, leafy trees shaded the quiet avenue where the hotel loomed. Eve and Konstantin ducked inside the foyer just as the drizzling rain became a downpour. 

“Are we safe here?” asked Eve.  
  
“Nowhere is ever completely safe. But we should be okay here for a while, especially if we keep moving rooms and floors.”

They made their way down the vacant, dimly lit hallways. The peeling, plum coloured walls were still adorned with crooked paintings and slanting, kitschy plastic candelabras that emanated a sickly yellow glow. Plants wilted in their pots. The air reeked of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed laundry. 

“Won’t The Twelve or MI6 check back here?”

“Why should they?” Konstantin paused at the foot of the staircase to catch his breath. “The Twelve never again use a location that’s been compromised, and MI6 has already been here to find what you brought them here to find. That gives us space and time.”

Konstantin led Eve back to room 201. He slowly opened the door. Eve’s stomach flipped over and her heart shot into her throat as she crossed the threshold. The window directly across from the door was opened a bit, allowing the scent of rain to refresh the small space. Eve saw Villanelle sleeping on one of the two creaky beds, wrapped up in the cobalt silk sheets. Eve took a step closer, her head pounding, her hands trembling, her heart slumping back down into its proper place in her chest, only to trip over its own rhythm. 

Eve felt Konstabtin’s warm hand on her shoulder. But all she could concentrate on was how gaunt Villanelle’s face looked, how her body was splayed on the mattress, weighed down by chains of exhaustion. She breathed thinly. Eve reached out, but now Konstantin gripped her shoulder painfully. 

“It was a long flight,” he murmured. “Let her sleep.”

The jangling of his keychain pulled Eve away from the bed. She stared at him incredulously as he unlocked the door adjacent to the entrance. 

“What,” he grunted, “did you think Villanelle and I jumped out the window to escape you and MI6? It is not that high, but still high enough to break Villanelle’s legs. And I cannot even fit through the window!”

Konstantin waved Eve through the door. She found herself inside a stone passageway. The considerably cooler air made her shiver. More of those ugly plastic lights were nailed to the cracked walls, weakly illuminating the way forward. Konstantin’s voice boomed in the low, claustrophobic space. 

“Each of The Twelve’s hotels have these secret passageways,” he explained over his shoulder. “For escape. Smuggling. Ambushing. They are quite useful.” 

“Doesn’t Carolyn know about these tunnels?”  
  
“Only some of them. Like the one underneath the safehouse my family and I are in.” He stopped to look pointedly at Eve. “Those tunnels connect with these ones. But even if I got my family out, where would they go next? There is nowhere for them to be safe.”

“Actually…” Eve tucked a few stray curls behind her ears. “I know exactly where they’ll be safe. Carolyn will never look for them inside the house of a lonely, bored old lady whose daughter never gave her grandchildren.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Eve shrugged. “You could bring them here and I’ll take them to Paddington Station. They’ll be at my mom’s place in like twenty minutes.” 

Konstantin scratched his beard. “Okay. But I want Villanelle to smuggle them. You are too risky. And besides...she owes me again, I think.”

They continued walking. Their footsteps echoed in the twisting tunnels. Konstantin unlocked another door, which revealed a wide room. A large Persian carpet covered most of its length. On both walls, racks of pistols, rifles, and daggers gleamed from the glow of the plastic chandelier overhead. There were also rows of protective gear, including padding and a pair of bulletproof vests. A metal strongbox rested by a cellar-like room. Eve peered inside to see two black-haired children resting on their cots, whispering excitedly. The boy waved at Eve, while the girl stuck her tongue out. 

“Carolyn told me about what Villanelle did to The Ghost. I taught her well,” said Konstantin proudly. “She also told me that Carolyn was keeping The Ghost’s kids in custody at MI6.”

“Let me guess, it was for their own good?” 

“Something like that. The Ghost thinks that Carolyn is looking after them. But I took them here instead.”

“Carolyn just...let you do that?”

Konstantin shrugged. “She needed my cooperation and this was one of my conditions. Carolyn thinks I am protecting The Ghost’s kids. Letting them play with Irina, like that.” 

“So why haven’t you used them yet?”

“I was waiting for the right opportunity.” Konstantin tilted his head. “I thought I would make a trade with them for my family, in case Carolyn is being difficult.”

Eve’s eyes glittered darkly. “I see.”

She wandered back into the training room proper. The bullet ridden targets at the end of the room caught her eye. She traced the large and small holes with steady fingers. Then she turned on her heel, seized the first handgun she could grab off the rack, aimed at the targets, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet burst from the barrel only to whiz over the targets entirely. 

Konstantin’s mocking claps reverberated throughout the room. “Good job! You hit the air.”

“Shut up.” Eve aimed again, her grip tighter than before. She missed again. The cracking sound that followed her shot made her flinch. 

“No, no, no. Stop, Eve.” Konstantin plodded over to stand at her shoulder. “You are too tense. Your feet are too far apart. You are not aiming properly.”

“Just let me shoot, alright?” 

Konstantin spread his hands. “I am not stopping you. But you will keep missing.”

“I won’t!”

“Look at you!” 

Another shot rang out. The targets remained unscathed. 

“Your face is a mess. Your body is weak, undisciplined. You are not focused.”

Eve lowered her arms. “Are you just going to stand there criticizing me?”

“If you want me to teach you, then stop being so stubborn. It is stupid.”

Konstantin pried the handgun from Eve and returned it to the rack. He considered each weapon thoughtfully, glancing at Eve every now and then with a pleased hum buzzing low in his throat. 

“It is good that you are interested in guns now. Villanelle cannot protect you forever.”

“I-I want to protect her.”

Konstantin nodded. “That is nice. I get it. But excuse me...I do not think you are capable.”

“Try me.”

Konstantin arched a snowy eyebrow. His hand darted out to a small caliber pistol, a compact, punchy thing that nestled heavily into his palm. Suddenly, he shot at Eve. She yelped and ducked three whole seconds after a bullet would have ruptured her left kidney. Before she could recover, Konstantin shot again, aiming at her head this time. Eve crumpled to the floor, fuming.

“Fuck! Could you at least _warn_ me next time?”

“There are no warnings when someone wants to kill you out there. No second chances. No room to be sloppy.” Konstantin aimed down the length of the pistol. “Why should I not kill you?”

Eve shielded her reddening face. “Oh my god, don’t!”

Konstantin laughed. “That is not a very good reason.”

“Stop fucking around, Konstantin.”

“I’m not.”

The next shot grazed past Eve’s forearm, shredding the sleeve’s material. Konstantin hauled her up by her hair and shoved the pistol’s barrel beneath her chin. 

“Do you really want to protect Villanelle?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to teach you how?”

“Yes.”

“Are you willing to do anything to protect Villanelle and everything that I show you?”

“Yes!”

“Good.”

Konstantin violently wrenched Eve’s right thumb and forefinger. She screamed, recoiled, jerked her hand away from his grasp. Konstantin spoke just over her.

“Circumstances are never ideal in the field. You will be hurt. You might even lose your eyesight or your limbs. That is why you must learn how to do your best without everything you take for granted, because only then can you do your best when you have it all in place.”

He strolled over to the strong box, then came back with a small ice pack for Eve’s rapidly swelling thumb and forefinger, and bandages to serve as impromptu splints. Eve choked on her shuddering sobs and tried to keep her hand still while Konstantin bandaged it. Eve’s eyes flashed with a feral, untethered haze. Konstantin slapped her so hard that her face surged to the side. 

“Do not look at me like that, Eve. You will heal in a couple of weeks. We have plenty to do in the meantime so do not worry, there is no time for boredom.” Konstantin glared at his watch. “Let’s go back upstairs.”

Eve kept the ice pack on her dislocated fingers as she perched on the edge of the bed parallel to Villanelle. She looked on in horror while Konstantin grimly pushed a needle into Villanelle’s arm. 

“What are you doing?”

Konstantin rolled Villanelle over to face Eve. “Keeping your wife alive.”

“What happened to her?”

“She survived a Novichok attack.”

“From The Ghost?”

“What do you think?”

“Oh no...god, no. This is all my fault.”

“How?”

Eve recounted Carolyn’s offer to Konstantin. His expression darkened like storm clouds rolling across the sky. 

“Why did you not say yes?”  
  
“Villanelle’s already got you!”

Konstantin sighed. 

“I can’t control Villanelle!”

Konstantin’s furrowed his brow.

“Carolyn tortured me!” 

Konstantin crossed his arms. “Villanelle is laying there, all pathetic, because you did not swallow your pride? You are stupider than I thought.”

“This is hard for me too! I didn’t think that Carolyn actually wanted to replace you. I didn’t know that-that Villanelle could be hurt.”

Konstantin scorched Eve with a withering glare. “I will go speak to Carolyn. You give Villanelle shots every hour or so, you got that? If I come back and she is not better than she looks now, I will break your whole arm.”

* * *

The spicy aroma of bouillabaisse filled Carolyn’s living room. Konstantin hastily wiped his chin and refilled her wine glass. They continued eating in silence, savouring the hot, flavourful spoonfuls. Konstantin bit through tender slices of fish and tomato. He observed Carolyn lightly tapping her fingers in time to the jazzy melody wafting from the speakers on top of the fireplace. She seemed lost in thought; playing with her dangling earrings, slowly rubbing her nose, crossing and uncrossing her legs, keeping her eyes fixed on her glazed blue bowl. 

Konstantin dipped in a hunk of bread. He chewed it jovially and mumbled past his full mouth. 

“You have been so busy lately that I didn’t think we would have time for this nice dinner.”

“I really should take some time off.”

“Yes. You should.”

“Have you seen Eve lately?”

Konstantin shrugged. “She is no longer useful to you, yes?”

“Perhaps.” Carolyn yawned. “What about Villanelle? You must miss being her Handler.”

“I miss a lot of things.” Konstantin gestured between them. “Eve and Villanelle remind me of us, when we were in love.”

“That was a long time ago, Konstantin. You know I am not sentimental.”

He chuckled ruefully. “I know. But I am. Yes Carolyn, I am just a sentimental old man.”

The spoons clattered against the bowls as Carolyn rose to clear the table. Konstantin watched her go, feeling heaviness settle in his chest like an old friend that appeared at his doorstep, soaked to the bone and hiding a knife. So much about Carolyn’s living room suited Konstantin’s taste: the plush beige carpet, the bay windows, the inviting suede sofa, the shelves stacked with vinyl records and books. It was a house he could have designed himself, a place he would have very much liked to share with Carolyn until his final days.

Waiting for Carolyn to return with their usual glasses of plum brandy allowed Konstantin the rare comfort of indulging his imagination. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to envision being Kenny’s father and raising him to be a real man; steadfastly standing at Carolyn’s side as she executed her plans; being trusted enough to hold her hand, listen to her dreams and goals, to hold her through the night; to forge their twin flames together into an unstoppable inferno that scorched all obstacles in their path. 

The longer that Konstantin kept himself entwined with Carolyn, just to catch sight of her or to snatch her drifting scent, the more acutely he was reminded that she viewed him as a distraction. The years flowing between them were so long and so brimming with sepia-toned events that Konstantin wasn’t sure sometimes if he actually had any accurate memories left or if they’d all dissolved into unfulfilled dreams. 

He sipped his brandy in silence, preferring to keep Carolyn in his peripheral vision. She was the hawk observing lush fields for any hint of rustling prey, the momentarily retracted claws itching to spring forward again. Her voice was soft and low when she spoke.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this unsure about our future.”

“Why?”

“Things are moving too fast these days. I haven’t been able to keep up, I’m afraid.”

“I cannot slow down myself.”

“Well, there you have it.” Carolyn sighed. “We’ve tried so hard to make something that lasts, something that will outlast us all, and now wouldn’t it be ironic if it turns out to be the death of us?”

Konstantin downed the brandy smoothly. “I don’t know what to say. It is not like you to be worried.”

“I am not. I am simply trying to accurately assess my deficit of information. That is all.”

“Okay.” Konstantin turned his head to really look at her. “Whatever happens, Carolyn...I want you to know something.”

“Yes?”

“You have done all that you could. More than any woman I have ever known. Maybe even in the whole of history.”

“Stop it, Konstantin.”

He slammed the brandy glass down. “It is true! Do not pretend. Please. How many years have we known each other? Please! You have not made any mistakes in all of that time. Everything will be alright. Okay?”

Carolyn gripped her glass so hard that her wrinkled knuckles popped. “And if everything is _not_ alright?”

“Why would it not be?”

“Because I have never been entirely able to predict everything or everyone accurately. Not even you.” 

Konstantin took the glass from Carolyn. He gulped down the last of her brandy, poised the empty glass on the corner of the fireplace mantle, and left Carolyn wrapped up alone in the fragile shadows of her living room. 


	14. Hide and Seek

The sleep wasn’t real, wasn’t a deep slumber, only a fitfulness exacerbated by the comedown from the atropine. Dehydration, exhaustion, poor nutrition, a depletion of serotonin; Villanelle knew the symptoms but couldn’t explain them in her dreams. 

They were strange dreams indeed, full of swirling colours, circles of light spinning themselves apart, dizzying hallucinations stitched together by blood-soaked threads and sensations that a cave had collapsed onto Villanelle’s chest, making her breathing laboured. Her mouth was as dry as a bone, her skin burned with fever, and when nausea gripped her, the dreams tilted into sensations of being on a boat pitching on roiling waves. 

Porcupine prickles stung up and down the length of Villanelle’s arms, injecting more throbbing madness into her veins. She felt like her body was bursting at every joint, each muscle swelling and seeping over bone, melting into sinew and skin, fusing with arteries and sheets of tissue that were punctured by the rattling, break-neck pace of her aching heart. 

There were no reliable indicators of when Villanelle’s body would betray her. It used to be a vessel with more rigour, more structure; something that not everybody else had and certainly something that was capable of doing things that nobody else could do. Now it seized up at a moment’s notice: tightness spearing through her ankles, straining the tendon running all the way to her trembling thighs, locking her hips in at a fiercely restrictive angle. 

The muscles in Villanelle’s arms felt like they were melted wax. Tremors and twitches started in her hands sometimes, or her shoulders, only to spread down to her elbow or her chest or transfer wholly to the other side of her body.  When Villanelle managed to clear her blurry vision, her body did not look and feel like her own; it was merely a distant collection of attachments that protruded from below her head and moved as if puppet strings were sewn into them. 

For once, Villanelle was grateful that there were no mirrors around. But they still appeared in her dreams, long halls of mirrors that distorted her body into hideous flesh-coloured smears, blotches of blonde and hazel and sharp movements that fractured the glass. The shards embedded themselves into Villanelle’s abdomen, pooling blood onto the bedsheets, soaking her elbow deep in gristle and ichor. In her dreams, Villanelle was all alone; wandering the empty, long halls in silence. 

Except in this dream, a voice called out to her. It was velvety rich, warm, smoky with a barely suppressed secret. It was darkly spiced by both lament and celebration, calling out her name with all the force of a runaway train barreling through a dark tunnel.  

“Oksana!” 

Her body thrashed. Numbness was followed by shocks from the base of her spine up to the back of her skull, then a rigidity that gradually broke into chunks of consciousness. 

“Oksana!”

She opened her eyes. Panting, she struggled to sit upright. When the tingling in her hands stopped, she gradually registered that Eve was tenderly holding one of them. 

“It’s okay, baby. I’m here.” 

“Eve…”

Villanelle started to say something, the words sloshing around in her foggy brain, something of an apology for Gemma, an offering of appeasement and understanding, but Eve’s kiss wiped everything else away. 

Their lips slotted into place like the continents forming a new pangea, coming back together in such a way that the earth itself knew it never should have split them apart. 

Villanelle broke for air but turned her head to the side when Eve leaned in for another kiss. 

“You left me!”  
  
Eve cupped her chin. “But I’m here now.”

Villanelle buried her hands into Eve’s curly mane. Her thumbs rested at Eve’s temples, delicately tracing circles there in time to Eve’s skyrocketing pulse. They shared breaths for a moment, their eyes searching each other restlessly. 

“What happened to your eye? And your _face_?” exclaimed Villanelle as she drew back. 

Eve flashed a lopsided grin. “Occupational hazard.” 

“Truly, I did not know that your fingers could even bend like that,” Villanelle added.

Eve held up her hand and observed it philosophically. “I’m training with Konstantin.”

“Have fun!”

Villanelle rested against the headboard. She took in Eve’s wrinkled clothing, the messy layers haphazardly thrown together, the way she closed herself off by crossing her arms and angling her body slightly away from Villanelle. Eve looked every bit as haggard, wrung out, and beaten as Villanelle felt. 

“I am beginning to get what Gabriel meant,” she said.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Nevermind.” Villanelle pinned Eve with a piercing look. “What really happened to you?”

Eve didn’t say anything for so long that Villanelle feared she wouldn’t answer at all. Villanelle clutched at the bed covers, fighting to stay focused on Eve’s quiet response. 

“Carolyn ordered The Ghost to torture me.”

Villanelle’s voice sounded like the darkest, fathomless depths of the human soul.

“Then we will go to MI6 and decapitate Carolyn along with everyone else there. Especially The Ghost.”

“I appreciate that your go-to solution is to just murder everyone, but that’s not going to work.”

“Why not?”

“We can’t just walk into MI6, guns blazing! Look at us!”

Eve messed up her hair, wrapping long curls around her functioning fingers, concentrating hard on the lamp propped up on Villanelle’s nightstand. 

“It is not that hard to kill someone, Eve.”

“Yeah, for you maybe. Things are a little too complicated for a simple murder.”

“What do you mean?”

“Carolyn probably thinks The Ghost killed you. And I can’t even guess why she thinks I might still be useful.”

“How did Carolyn get her hands on you anyway?” 

Eve’s expression darkened. “Niko sold me out,” she spat. 

Villanelle’s heart soared as Eve continued, rushing her explanation like it ripped away a chunk of her flesh with every word. 

“He tried to re-frame me for Gemma’s murder. I got handcuffed and thrown in jail, everything. Then Carolyn had Konstantin drive me back to MI6. I was thinking she’d bailed me out, but she just baited me and I walked right into her trap.”

“Wow. You think you know someone.”

Eve’s thin smile twisted into an expression of concern as Villanelle’s hands twitched, followed by her head snapping to the side as tremors wracked her body. 

“Don’t touch me!”

Villanelle closed her eyes to shut out the sight of Eve’s worried expression, denied herself the caring touch of Eve’s hand as it moved to rest on her chest. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” snarled Villanelle.

“I-I want to make sure you’re alright.”

“There is nothing you can do. So just…just leave me alone. Okay?” 

“No, not okay.” Eve shifted closer to Villanelle. “I have to make things right. I have to protect you.”

“Oh my god, _protect_ me? Protect _me_? What the fuck!”

Villanelle coughed out a wheezing sort of laugh. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. 

“I _will_ protect you. I swear.”

“No, Eve.”

“Yes!”

“What is with you? I can protect myself.”

“Obviously not! Fuck!” Eve threaded her hands through her hair again. “I have to be honest with you, I have to tell you something.”

“Then tell me!”

Villanelle tracked the movement of Eve’s thumb as it steadily rubbed against the plastic ring. 

“The Ghost’s attack on you...was my fault.”

“What?”

“Carolyn offered me to join The Twelve. As your Handler. I refused. Even after she told me that whether The Ghost killed you or not depended on my answer.” 

When Eve could finally bring herself to meet Villanelle’s gaze, her eyes were brimming with unshed tears. Villanelle wanted to stick a needle into her own eyes just to be blind to the whimpering, wet mess that was dissolving before her. 

“Why didn’t you say yes?” Villanelle snapped.  
  
“I thought Carolyn was bullshitting! I thought you could handle yourself!”

“Oh my god…this is my _body_ , Eve!”

“I didn’t think-” Eve inhaled sharply and tried again. “I didn’t think The Ghost would actually be able to hurt you.” 

“Oh, great thinking!”

“Stop it! I was hurt too!” Eve ripped the shirt off over her head to reveal the scars and bruises that the thin material no longer covered. “And that’s not even the worst of it!”

“It is not my body, Eve. Why should I care?”

Eve flinched away as if she’d been slapped. Her voice came out in a gasp of pain. 

“Villanelle…”

“I have to tell you something,” she said coldly. “And do not get how you usually get, all stupid and jealous and angry. Okay? Because I am just being honest with you!”

“Please, Villanelle-”

“After you _abandoned_ me, I fucked another woman.”

Villanelle kept her voice steady, even as she saw the tears finally dripping down Eve’s face. Villanelle briefly considered peeling it off with her fingernails, if only to reset her expression and give her a nice, clean slate. 

“It was in Sydney. On this really fancy yacht,” continued Villanelle. She did not look away from Eve. “It had three decks. Three! Anyway, she was this boring photography lady, nothing special. We did not have sex for long and I killed her right after. So you can stop staring at me like you want to rip out my throat. Okay?”

Eve surged off the bed.

“You cheated on me!”

“You betrayed me!”

“You’re my wife!”

“You are mine, too!”

“Then why the fuck did you cheat on me?” Eve screeched. 

“Calm down, it was nothing!”

“We’re married now, it’s everything!”

“Eve, you are overreacting. It does not matter. I told you, she is dead. And I got the USB.”

“Wait, you fucked a Keeper?”

“Uh, yeah. Occupational hazard.”

Eve didn’t crack a smile. “I’m your _wife_. You _cheated_ on me. You _hurt_ me.”

“Okay, okay. I get it! I do.” Villanelle shoved the covers down lower, letting her torso cool. “But you hurt me, too.”

Eve’s shoulders slumped. Her was face obscured by curls. But her voice was harsh and clear in the tense silence. 

“How can I ever trust you again?”

“Funny. I was about to ask the same thing.”

“What’s the point of being married to me if you’re just going to act the same as you did before?”

Villanelle stared at the wall. She could tell from Eve’s blanked out expression that her own was settling like chiseled stone, reforming into a hard mask. The beginnings of stiffness claimed her body. She struggled to keep the sweeping waves of pain at bay. 

“Get out.”

Eve went to the mini-bar, snatched a few mini-vodkas, and slammed the door behind her. 

The room closed around Villanelle like a vault. 

* * *

Standing a comfortable shooting distance away, Konstantin aimed at Eve and pulled the handgun’s trigger three times. Each bullet slammed into her vest at various points on her torso. She felt the shock of the impact disperse across the hard, thick material. Coughing and stumbling back, Eve peeled the vest off to reveal three flaring welts. 

Konstantin tossed Eve another vest. “Again. You must get used to being shot at.”

Eve fumbled to put it on. Konstantin sent a few bullets whizzing past in order to hurry her up. She barely had a moment to recover before he shot at her again. The force drilling into the vest still made her flinch. Corrosive frustration bubbled up in her throat at the sight of Konstantin’s disapproving expression. Hearing him bark out orders for the last few days felt like sharp rocks being grated over Eve’s raw torture wounds. The ones that had healed fully by now still left ridges of raised skin, pale scars, and itching phantom pain. 

Among other things, Konstantin had made Eve shoot with her wobbly left hand (completely unbalancing and humiliating her); flail around wildly in what could only very loosely be termed as self-defence; and practice shooting at him as he (regrettably) wore a vest, while her other arm with the dislocated fingers was restricted in a sling. The weight of a handgun no longer felt so foreign to Eve, but her wrist and carpals ached long after she’d returned it to the rack. 

Polished rifles gleamed at her teasingly beneath the hot lights. Wickedly sharpened daggers with all sorts of serrated and curved edges piqued her interest as she ran the tips of her fingers along their cold blades. Sometimes The Ghost’s children would laugh nervously, distracting Eve from the motionless targets; more often than not, it was Konstantin’s consistent, intentionally distracting chatter that yanked her concentration away. 

The first time Eve managed to actually pierce a target’s abdomen, Konstantin stopped mid-sentence to personally help her reload. Eve watched him deftly replace the handgun clip, her eyes shining keenly as he slowly guided her through the process. 

“How did you get involved with all of...this?” Eve gestured around the room. 

“I peddled information between Russia and Chechnya, during the First Chechen War in the 90s.” 

“What was that all about?”

Konstantin eyed the handgun warily as he placed his hand over the top of the slide, grasped it, then pulled back sharply until it chuncked into place. 

“I pretended to sell food and drinks at the market. But really, I was running information for both the Russians and the Chechens. Information was a far more precious commodity than goat cheese and plum wine during the war.”

“What was it over?”

“What all wars are about,” Konstantin grumbled. “Power. Control. Resources. Pettiness. We are in the middle of a war right now.”

“We are?”

“Yes. Cyberwar.” 

“Right. So who won your war?”

Konstantin shot a target’s head off. “Does not matter. But since I know you won’t stop bothering me until I tell you, the Chechen guerillas won. Only because Russia could not control Chechnya’s mountains. I spent many months hiding in them.”

“Wow. Really?”

“Yes. They were close to important trade and communication routes. I survived in the mountains, while everywhere else there were bombings. Kidnappings. Famine. Children stepping on landmines. Births. And many, many deaths.”

Eve took the gun from Konstantin and mirrored his stance as best she could. “Is that when you met Carolyn?”

“I already knew Carolyn from before.”

“How?”

“She asked me to kill her brother. To make it look like a suicide.”

“Oh.” All of a sudden, Eve found herself clutching the handgun more tightly. “Is that how you got into The Twelve?”

A spark flared in Konstantin’s eyes. “You could say that. Perhaps you are not so stupid after all.”

It was nice of Konstantin not to comment on the fact that Eve spent most of her days and nights in the training room. Sweat drenched and shaking, Eve feverishly pushed her body past its already broken limits. Once her fingers healed and it came time for Konstantin to train her-in-hand to hand combat, Eve insisted on no quarter.

She was terribly uncoordinated, clumsily dodging his strikes until heavy blows sent her sprawling onto the cold floor. Eve scrambled back to her feet and launched herself at Konstantin. She battered his chest with punches, elbowed him in the gut, clawed at his shoulders, and landed a glancing kick on his left shin. His eyes narrowed, but that was the extent of his discernible reaction. He calmly moved out of Eve’s range. 

The next time she lunged forward, her white knuckles thudding against Konstantin’s vest, he sidestepped her follow up entirely. Then he shoved her against the wall, steadily crushing her windpipe as he leaned his full weight on the arm that he put across her throat. Growling, Eve clutched at Konstantin and tried to break free. A boiling hot, suffocating feeling wormed into her chest. She struggled against Konstantin’s grip, choking, lashing at his shoulders.

Eve heard her throat cracking. Yellow spots popped into her vision. She kept her ferocious gaze locked with Konstantin’s cool blue eyes. For all of his impassivity, Eve saw his eyebrows raise a fraction when she let her body go slack. This granted her just enough space to squirm, to dig her nails into the back of his hand, and to sink her front teeth into the soft, thin flesh between his thumb and forefinger. 

Konstantin yelped as she bit down harder, then shouted at her in Russian when she didn’t let go. Her hair cascaded wildly the more that Konstantin tried to wrench his hand free. Blood spurted into Eve’s mouth. Its coppery, sharp flavour invigorated her. She finally loosened her jaws to push Konstantin away. He frantically applied pressure to the split skin, rivulets of blood leaking from between his fingers. 

“You are just like Villanelle! Very emotional.”

Eve spat out the blood. She smirked. Her teeth and gums were streaked crimson. The taste lingered, set her on edge, and heightened her appetite. Konstantin fed The Ghosts’s kids before he trudged back into the hotel to tend to the bite, but Eve stayed behind to polish one of the handguns. It looked meaner than the one she used for target practice. Cold metal weight filled the palm of her hand. The muzzle was larger, clearly meant for a bullet that left a far messier impact than the ones that she fed into the other handgun.

The comfort of a weapon in her hands still felt the same. 

Walking through the hotel’s dim passageways alone sent shivers crawling up and down Eve’s spine. She wondered how many more criss-crossed beneath London, where exactly they led. Were there paths beneath her neighbour’s house? Or underneath the supermarket? Did some routes end up at untold graveyards or abandoned metro tunnels? Stealing breath, stealing light, this hotel burrowed itself deep into the rotting earth; past rats and bones and plant roots, plunging through the foundations of buildings and layers of centuries past. 

Unbidden, the catacombs below Rome resurfaced in Eve’s mind. The low ceiling and cracked walls bore down on her. Thrusting through the intermittent doorways, picking her way past loosened cobblestones, and keeping herself alert to the sound of her own harsh breathing, Eve gripped the handgun until her knuckles popped. It was the only thing that felt real to her, the only thing that she could hold onto in a sea of hazy shadows.

Until she carefully, oh so carefully, opened the door that led back to room 201.

Cloaked by the treacherous darkness, Eve crept deeper inside. The ugly carpet muffled her footsteps. She had to squint to make out Villanelle’s faint silhouette on the bed. Eve’s eyes flicked to the flaring red numbers of the digital clock; the small hours of the morning compressed Eve’s thoughts and feelings, neatly repackaging them into actions that her enflamed mind could somehow understand. 

She hesitated at the foot of the bed. She flexed her repaired fingers. She held her breath. She momentarily rested her hand on the bed covers, almost jumping at their clammy texture. She took a step forward, stood at Villanelle’s waist now. She listened to her breathe. Just breathe. In and out, in and out. Her lungs sounded hurt, the air whistling out thinly and hollowly. 

Eve’s forefinger brushed teasingly against the trigger. She raised the handgun, just as Villanelle rolled over onto her back, shifting the covers and sheets with her. Eve re-positioned herself to be at Villanelle’s chest now, so close that she could smell the drops of sweat gathered at the hollow of her throat. Villanelle’s visage was covered with murkiness, but Eve’s mind filled in Villanelle’s radiant tangle of hair, the purse of her lips, her high cheekbones, the magnetic gleam in her eyes. 

In her mind’s eye, Villanelle was not sick or suffering. She did not feel like a long lost possession that washed up on the shore of Eve’s thoughts like battered driftwood. She was not used. She was new and exciting and reclaimed by Eve, possessed and taken and not up for grabs by the greedy waves that lapped along the black beaches made from shards of glass. It felt as if Eve had walked barefoot on these beaches, along this desolate shore, for an eternity. 

And then she had met Villanelle. But Villanelle did not appreciate exclusivity, and Eve felt her heart collapse in the face of this reality. Her eyes stung. She breathed as hard as Villanelle did, trying to prevent sobs from escaping and alerting Villanelle. After several silent seconds, Eve brought the handgun up again. She held the grip with both hands now, just the way Konstantin had demonstrated, and she waited for her breathing to steady. 

It was fine, Eve thought calmly. She would take her time. She didn’t mind staring Villanelle down from this angle, the one that gave Eve such a rippling sense of power that she felt her fingertips sizzle. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, getting ready to jump off and splash into the unknown waters. The handgun gun trembled eagerly, its warmth friendly and reassuring, its silent lethality inviting Eve to make use of it. 

She gasped as she thought she saw two sharp and suspicious eyes staring at her out of the darkness. But that couldn’t be right; it was much too dark to see for sure, and all the windows in the stifling room were shut tightly, covered by the heavy curtains. Not even the silver moonlight made it into the room. 

Eve’s hands were terribly weak. Fearfully, she corrected her stance again, aimed the handgun right in the middle of Villanelle’s forehead. For every second that ticked away, Eve felt her hands grow more numb and more wooden. A distant curiosity brought her forefinger gently against the trigger again; she wondered if the blood would gush from Villanelle’s head like water from an overturned glass, or if it would stream down her face from the crown of her head like a waterfall, or maybe her head would just explode like an overripe melon as soon as the bullet ripped through it. 

Beads of sweat slid down Eve’s face. A sudden giddiness seized her. Villanelle uttered a low, broken moan. Her arm flailed across her face, nearly catching the outstretched handgun. Eve stepped back. She couldn’t see Villanelle’s seizure, but she could hear the bed sheets shredding in her iron grip, hear her whimpers and faint cries, hear the thud of her limbs as she writhed.  

The air was as thick and heavy as a coffin lid. Eve sat down on the edge of the parallel bed, the handgun hanging loosely from her fingers. Dead silence reigned for a minute or two. Eve quivered like a leaf, lifted her hand and put it on her sweaty brow, opened her mouth but couldn’t make a sound, and tasted the rancid feeling of loathing deep within her that grew stronger every second. 

But it soon gave way to a sort of dreamy blankness that began to take possession of Eve. She listened intently and heard the sound of weighty, even, and unhurried footsteps which seemed to be coming from the hotel’s hallway. Everything was so, so loud in this inky stillness and precarious quiet; Eve couldn’t get off the bed without the mattress squeaking in protest, or the chair scraping as she accidentally bumped against it on her way to the door.

Deliriously, Eve peered through the eyehole. She swore at herself when it was instantly apparent that she couldn’t see clearly, glanced back at Villanelle, then once more through the small bubble that narrowed her vision down to the poorly lit hallway. The footsteps seemed to be coming closer, there was no doubt. 

Eve’s neck was dripping wet. Curls tangled there and swept down her shoulders. She was only dimly conscious of herself now. She squeezed the handgun. A dreadful chill came over her at the sight of Konstantin’s white hair finally coming into view. She was taken with violent shivers. Her mind felt smeared with tar. Scraps of thoughts fought each other for her attention, but she could not catch a single one despite all her efforts.

The wooden door in front of Eve became realer only because she’d pressed her nose right on it. It smelled cheap, it felt cheap; her hand left a sweaty impression just above the rickety doorknob. Again, Eve glanced at Villanelle then through the eyehole, and almost jumped. Konstantin was in full view now, very close to the door and drawing closer the longer that Eve stood paralyzed. 

Her heart beat painfully. She kept squeezing the handgun although it practically burned her palm to do so. A frantic, panicked thought stumbled forward: she should just give it all up right now, give herself over to Konstantin and let him break both of her arms for good measure; yes, she should just open the door immediately and rush forward into the weak light to be recognized.

Konstantin peered at the door strangely. Eve stood absolutely still, not even daring to draw breath. He was wearing his bulky overcoat, holding some sort of tote bag in his unbandaged hand, and refusing to simply _go away._

Another thought came to Eve: she could open the door and just _shoot_ Konstantin! But not in his belly, as Villanelle had done. No, Eve would shoot him in the heart, just like he was one of those targets in the training room. Then she would go back over to Villanelle’s bed and-and-

And then what? Eve suddenly grew very angry. Her own lack of committed direction pumped lava through her veins. She felt like a nail was slowly being driven into the back of her skull. This was followed by an intense sensation of relief when Konstantin abruptly turned two doors down from room 201 and slammed the door behind him.

The sweaty grip Eve maintained on the handgun reminded her that she should move. She went back to Villanelle’s bed. Stood rooted to the spot. Listened for her weak but unmistakable breathing. The handgun came up again and Eve stared down at Villanelle. Suddenly, an unbearable emotion crashed onto Eve’s shoulders. It forced her to drop her hands, to back away slowly, to leave room 201 hastily, to go up an entire flight of stairs, and to finally throw herself onto the bed of the first room she entered.

Eve didn’t sleep for the rest of the night so much as she just _collapsed._ She put the handgun on the bedside table beside the room service telephone, shed all of her clothes, and prepared to masturbate herself into oblivion. But it didn’t work; although her fingers came away slick and trembling, her mind spun itself apart with worry instead of pleasure. Thoughts swarmed in her mind like locusts, kept getting dragged down through the floor, surrendering to Villanelle’s gravitational pull a whole floor below. 

Villanelle, who had without a moment’s pause, or any sort of reflection or regret, put her lying mouth on the Keeper’s tits; Villanelle, who had not hesitated to shove her slender fingers into the Keeper’s leaking cunt; Villanelle, with her shining lips and intoxicating eyes, had let another woman touch her smooth body; had let another woman press her glossy lips against the sensitive side of her neck, maybe even against the _knife scar_ that _Eve_ had given her; Villanelle, with her comforting, all-consuming strength, had angled her hips into the Keeper’s, had shared a shuddering breath, had dug her perfectly manicured nails into the lace of the Keeper’s bra, had spilled kisses into her mouth and flicked her tongue, had murmured sweet nothings, in that breathy, excited, callow voice of hers, into the nest of the Keeper’s hair, had dragged her lips along the quivering insides of the Keeper’s legs and _tasted_ her, stained her teeth and lips and tongue with another woman’s flavour, had probably wiped her mouth after and wiped away all of Eve too with that single, nonchalant gesture. 

Frustrated gasps tugged themselves loose from Eve as her hands brushed against rough patches of scarred skin; bumpy textures where the darkest bruises had been; tracing over her hardened, tender nipples, and lingering on her thighs. The night hid her body, but the thought of Villanelle’s reaction if she saw it again sent Eve into despair. 

An immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding her split violently into an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. She despised her face, her gestures, her voice, her mind. She didn’t make a sound throughout the whole rest of the night, didn’t allow herself to move a muscle.

Over a breakfast of croissants and black coffee, Eve stayed silent as Konstantin raved about how expensive everything in London was. Not even his training plan for the day got her to look up from her crumby plate. Only when Konstantin snapped his fingers directly in front of her did she jerk her head to look at him. 

“What is the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” replied Eve dully.  
  
“Don’t give me that! You are sulking. And I just can’t train you when you are sulking because it makes you extra stubborn. So tell me, what is going on with you?”

“I don’t like my body.”

“Ha!” Konstantin rubbed his beard. His eyes twinkled with amusement. “You may be thin, yes, but it is true-you have no conditioning. We will fix that, yet.” 

“No, it’s not that. I mean I’ll never be the assassin you want me to be. And it’s not your fault,” Eve added quickly as Konstantin opened his mouth to protest. “I’m learning as much as I can. Which has been a lot so far, honestly. It’s just that I-I don’t really like my body.”

“Okay. Is that all?”

“No. I don’t think Villanelle likes my body. That’s...that’s probably why she cheated on me. And why she’ll never want me again.”

Eve muttered the rest of her sentence into the coffee, washed it down quickly, practically drowned it in bitterness. She didn’t want to look at Konstantin anymore, but he’d dragged his bar stool closer. More gently than she ever thought was possible, Konstantin placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I understand what you are going through,” he said gruffly. “Take a look at me. When I was in the Chechen mountains, I did not have all of a fun time. The Chechen guerillas made me prisoner for a while. They were not nice. Not at all.”  
  
“You were tortured too?”

“Of course.”  
  
“Oh. I’m sorry, Konstantin.”

He shrugged behind his coffee cup. “It was a long time ago. I still have scars, but my wife does not mind. You see?”  
  
“I appreciate that. But your wife isn’t Villanelle.”

It took Konstantin a few seconds to stop guffawing in order to answer Eve coherently. “Villanelle is special. You should remember that.”  
  
“Believe me, I’m not allowed to forget.”

“I love her too, you know. Now are you jealous?”  
  
“What? Of course not!” 

Konstantin squeezed Eve’s shoulder warmly. “Villanelle has always been in command of her body, and who she shares it with. You will never be able to change that.”  
  
“But I’m her wife!” Eve slammed her cup down, spilling some coffee onto her remaining croissant. “She's only supposed to share her body with me!”

“Did you talk about this before?”  
  
“Um, no. I just...I just figured she understood that.”

Konstantin sighed. “What did I tell you about professional communication? You and Villanelle have known each other for a whole five minutes, and you spend most of those not talking. Ridiculous.”

Eve gaped at him while he slurped the rest of his coffee. “So I’m just supposed to crawl back to Villanelle?”

“Maybe consider my case again before you do. Carolyn has been with many lovers other than me.”

“And you’re alright with that?” Eve snorted. 

“Yes.”  
  
“How? Why?”

“Because I am committed to Carolyn,” Konstantin answered stiffly. 

“She’s just using you!”  
  
“I am aware. And it works out for us, yes?” Konstantin grinned wolfishly. “Carolyn thinks she has got me, because I am around all the time. But soon, that will change.”

Eve’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know you aren’t just using me and Villanelle until your family is safe?”  
  
“There you go, being stupid again.” Konstantin shook his head. “I am committed to Villanelle. And by extension to you, I suppose. Because Carolyn has endangered my family by trying to use them against me. While Villanelle, she will help them get to your mother’s place. That is the difference.”

“Okay, maybe I _am_ stupid. Because I don’t get how you can just sit there and try to talk me into trusting Villanelle after she cheated on me. If I go back, she’ll just do it again!”

“But you are married.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been _saying_ all along!”

“You are married, except you do not understand what that means. Not really.”

“What?”  
  
Konstantin looked at her with the same focus as when he was aiming a gun. “Marriage means that you both have your place. Marriage means that you have more than a simple interest in a person. More than an attachment. It means that you have a commitment. Villanelle and you need to talk, to make sure that you are committed to each other.”

“So we’re just going to patch this up with a nice chat over tea?”  
  
“Tea. Wine. Coffee. Whatever you like. Only, make sure that you are communicating. It must be done. And I am sick of your bickering, you are worse than children!” 

Eve picked at the hair tie keeping her curls in a neat top knot. “Talking with Villanelle would be easier if she was actually honest. And more emotional.”  
  
“Emotional? You should have seen her in Amsterdam!”

“Amsterdam? What happened there?”

“Well, she murdered this cheating husband in a brothel. In front of his wife. Wearing a cute pink dress and a pig mask while she gutted him. Does that please you?” Konstantin chuckled as Eve gave a start. “She is not unfamiliar with the jealous, possessive type. You get me? Still, she was very wrecked when you did not come to see her in Amsterdam.”

“I wanted to!”  
  
“Then how come you didn’t?”  
  
“Carolyn wouldn’t let me!”  
  
“If you were truly committed, you would have come no matter what. No matter what,” repeated Konstantin as he pointed at Eve meaningfully. “Just like Villanelle killed for you in Amsterdam. To impress you. Commitment! But when you did not come to her, she went out of her mind. I found her in a club, high on some shitty drugs. She almost killed someone, can you imagine? And then in the morning, I heard her crying in the bathroom. Over you!”

Eve stared. Her voice was thick with emotion. “Villanelle _cried_?”

“Yes. A lot.”  
  
“Over me?”

Konstantin shrugged. “I do not understand you women sometimes. You are always crying or screaming. But as long as you are not crying or screaming at me, it is good.”

“Konstantin-I had no idea. I...thank you for telling me.”

“It is fine. Now go! Talk to Villanelle, she will be awake by now.”

Eve made her way up to the second floor. The sun poured from the windows at this hour, throwing a streak of light on the right wall and the corner near the elevator doors. The hallway stretched on for an impossibly long distance. Eve slowly walked to the familiar burnished numbers, shivering at the memory of last night. It truly seemed like a fever dream. She felt wide awake now, her heart pounding quickly in her chest and her veins rushing with excitement. 

Pieces of words clogged in Eve’s throat. She wanted to disentangle them before she opened the door, to get them into some sort of logical order, to inject the proper emotions into her sentences. Excitement got the best of Eve and she opened the door before she felt completely prepared, a small smile as bright as the morning sun already tugging at her mouth.

But when she stepped into room 201, Villanelle was gone.

* * *

Villanelle told herself that she was playing just a little game of hide and seek. 

During the day, while Konstantin trained Eve, Villanelle would sneak out of room 201 for an hour or two at a time. She always returned for her dose of atropine and she made sure not to wander too far in case Konstantin or Eve randomly decided to check on her. But Villanelle wandered the deserted hallways just the same, peering into the unkempt rooms, grabbing snacks from the kitchen, watering the potted plants tucked away into dusty corners, chancing upon clothing left behind in closets, and clambering up the staircase in order to keep her muscles from atrophying entirely. 

Some days it was harder to get out of bed than other days. On the hard days, Villanelle would stare at the shadows shifting across the wall as the sun dragged itself across the sky. She would not eat. She could not move, fearing the onslaught of rigidity that would inevitably trap her. And she did not sleep. 

Blanketed by darkness, Villanelle would lay in bed. She’d pull the covers almost all the way up to her chin, tossing and turning between sudden flashes of hot and cold. Her eyes would be wide open. Nothing stirred in the hotel, so whenever something did, Villanelle would focus on it acutely and inquisitively. Most nights, she knew that Konstantin would pass through the room with all the grace of a bull tearing through a china shop. 

Except that, last night, long after Konstantin had tucked the covers around her shoulders, Villanelle felt Eve come into the room. 

Wading through the penumbra, Eve flowed with the shadows to reach the bed. Something throbbed in the blackest depths of Villanelle’s mind, dipped into the secret shivers of her soul, aroused the burning pulses of blood coursing through her veins. The air was charged with anticipation; Villanelle heard it slice open as the unmistakable whistle of a gun being hefted through the air piqued her interest. 

Villanelle gazed at the area where she’d felt Eve radiating from. Her hair formed a thicker outline, blurred and morphing into the colour of the night. Villanelle held her breath. Bit her tongue to stave off a seizure, then pretended to have one just to see what Eve would do. Any second now, she could set off the gun in a blinding flash and a burst of hot pain that would disappear as quickly as it came.

Eve did no such thing. She just stood there. So Villanelle just lay there, her hands lingering at her waist underneath the covers, her heart racing, her eyes wide and her mind bursting with possibilities. 

With her body shrouded in darkness, Villanelle felt a strange sense of calm because she knew that Eve could not see her. And yet, Villanelle still felt  _seen_ in a way that went beyond nerves and touch and sight; her heart capsized at the thought that she’d managed to move Eve enough for her to come to Villanelle, gun in hand, that she even thought about violently unleashing the tempest of her emotions.

It was exquisite and potent and glorious, and it was simply a little game of hide and seek, that was all. Just as Villanelle was playing hide and seek now, with Irina and Konstantin’s big-hipped, plump wife. Paddington Station was bustling with people eagerly shoving each other aside to board the trains for their morning commute. Oblivious and rude, they throttled past the bench Irina was standing on. 

She scanned the crowd with a toss of her flouncy auburn hair. It was parted to the right side now, wavy and giving her an air of sophistication far beyond her years. Ignoring her mother’s alarm, Irina shrieked and pointed at the pillar Villanelle was slouching behind. 

“I found you! I found you!”  
  
“Shut up!” Villanelle shouted back. “I do not know how you can even see past that awful haircut!”  
  
“It’s cool, okay? You are just being a big baby!”  
  
“Come over here and say that to my face!” 

Villanelle peeked around the pillar. Irina was standing with her hands on her hips.

“I’m hungry,” she called out. 

“Too bad. I’m not getting you anything to eat.”  
  
“Why not?”

“Because I ate already and I am not hungry.”  
  
“My mom is hungry too.”  
  
“Your mom should go on a diet,” muttered Villanelle. “We’ll miss our train if you eat now,” she yelled, “save it for later.”

Irina crossed her arms. “Come say that to my face!”

Villanelle stepped swiftly into the crowd. She wove her way past trolleys and briefcases and sweaty bodies to reach Irina in a matter of moments. Irina sat down, huddling close to her mother.

“Does she get the annoying part from you?” asked Villanelle.

“No, I don’t!” Irina snapped. 

“Huh. Then it must be Konstantin.” Villanelle crossed a leg at her other knee. “The train is late. I can’t believe this!”  
  
“You should be patient.”  
  
“Shut up. Don’t talk. Your voice is annoying. And you are still stinky.”

Irina stuck out her tongue. Villanelle caught it between two fingers and yanked it playfully. “Do that again and I’ll tear it out. Okay?”

Irina was mercifully quiet on the train ride to the house where Eve’s mother lived. It was a small house, with a bed of tulips in the front yard and a trail of dirt leading to a presumably flowery backyard. A few black shingles were loose, and the paint on the eaves supporting the roof had weathered away. Inside, the house was doused with migraine-inducing levels of scented candles and crushed, dried florals. Not a single item was out of place; not the shoes on the landing, not the tea mugs in the cupboards, not the chairs around the dining table, not the picture frames lining the staircase. 

A large, gilded cross hung on the wall behind the leather sofa. It was covered with a plastic sheet that groaned obscenely when Konstantin’s wife dropped down on it. She chatted excitedly with Eve’s mother about religion while Irina rolled her eyes. She pouted by the piano that was pushed up against the wall dividing the den from the kitchen. Villanelle poked her in the arm; Irina kicked her foot in return. 

“And how do you know Eve?” asked Eve’s mother.

Villanelle swallowed hard. “We are professionals.”

“Oh. You’re at MI5 too?”

“Sure. Why,” asked Villanelle sharply when Eve’s mother raised her eyebrows, “you think that is funny or something?”

“No, no. Not funny. It’s just that, you don’t look like you would work there.”

“Well I do!”

“Alright. Eve never told me about you. Just like she never told me that I would be babysitting your extended family until the very last minute.”

“They’ll be well behaved.” Villanelle elbowed Irina in the ribs. “Besides, what would God say about turning away a good neighbour in need?”

On her way out the door, Villanelle passed a picture of Eve that was placed on a glass table in the front hallway. She looked to be about Villanelle’s age here: her eyes were carefree, she was smiling brightly, and her hair was frozen in time just as a gust of wind had lifted it. Villanelle stared at the picture longer than she stared at her own reflection in the mirror above the table. 

The train ride back to the hotel was somber, sullen, and far too long. Her body battled itself as the hour and a half mark approached; she sat on her hands to keep them from darting out, crossed her feet behind her ankles to keep them from shaking apart, bit her tongue and tucked her chin down to keep her head from snapping to the side; felt sweat slop down her cheeks, soak the collar of her blouse, pool on her abdomen and wet her back. 

 _Not here, not here, not here_ thought Villanelle as a tremor rolled through her. There were too many people in this train carriage, and if she couldn’t master the spasms taking hold of her, those warnings of the chaotic pain to come, all the people would see how _vulnerable_ and _weak_ she really was. Then she would probably have to kill them, smear the cloudy windows with their entrails, leave their limbs along the metal aisle, shove their skin into the cracks between the leather seats and armrests. 

With no darkness for cover, Villanelle could only look on as her leg thrust forward to connect with the hard back of the passenger seat in front of her. Then her left hand, which was supposed to be rubbing feeling back into her other leg, slammed into the window hard enough to make Villanelle cry out. Heads turned. Beady eyes scoured her body, flayed it open to expose all of its flaws. Stuttering, gasping at the cavern that had opened up in her chest and was steadily swallowing her whole, Villanelle shuddered in her seat. 

She was rotting. People were looking. Nausea. Tension, climbing higher and higher. Fire, spreading through her, not caring for the fact that she didn’t want it to. Her knees smacked onto the floor, hard enough to make her cry out again. It was too much, _too much_ , she couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t bear to feel the bile rising in her throat, the drool slipping from the corner of her mouth, the shaking of her body as it lost its battle and left her hollowed out on the littered floor. 

Villanelle stumbled out of the airless train two stops earlier. The sky still blushed with the onset of morning, its colour gentle and soft on her raw eyes. Her arms itched. Her lungs felt like they were wrapped in a cold, wet blanket. Blurred vision. Dry mouth. The edges of her mind craving the needle under her skin, pushing familiar drugs again. 

The empty hotel lobby made Villanelle’s heart sink, even if she expected it. Konstantin was probably training Eve, which meant that Villanelle could inject atropine undisturbed. She almost slipped down the stairs leading to the second floor, another jolt of stiffness causing her to lose balance and her grip on the iron railing. Sweating, shaking, Villanelle burst through the door of room 201-

To find Eve standing at the other end of the room, surrounded by debris. 

Her mane of hair was wild. She breathed harshly. The curtains were ripped; a bannister toppled against the nightstand, evidently knocking over the lamp. In turn, it had fallen onto the floor to promptly be trampled. The room service phone was smashed apart. Bed sheets and covers pooled on the floor, their stuffing ripped out, scattered, eviscerated. A faint burning smell clung to the air. 

“Do you have a thing for trashing my rooms?” Villanelle asked as she slowly stepped closer to Eve. 

“Apparently, that’s the only way to get through to you.”

Villanelle found the atropine kit inside one of the desk drawers that had been ripped out and tossed aside. Quickly, almost mechanically, she plunged a needle into her arm with a sigh. A note of clarity rang through her soon. 

“Villanelle, why did you marry me?”

The question was all jumbled together, as if it had spent too long coiled in Eve’s throat and now it had sprung free. 

“Because I wanted to,” Villanelle replied. “Why did you marry me?”

“Because I love you.”

“Thank you. I can’t imagine why, but thank you.”

Eve sank down onto the bed. Villanelle came to her, towered over her. Eve looked up resolutely at Villanelle. 

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Just us, together. Just...you. And me. Just you and me. Do you understand, Villanelle?”

Villanelle mirrored Eve on the opposite bed. “Yes.”

“But I can’t do that unless...unless I _know._  Unless I can be absolutely _sure_ that-that you feel the same way. God, that you feel even a sliver of what I do for you.” 

It was hard to breathe, hard to swallow. Hard to be seen in the naked daylight. Villanelle took Eve’s hand in her own.

“I’m glad I can reciprocate the same feeling that you give me.”

And oh, now Eve looked at her, really saw her for the first time since she’d entered the room. Villanelle’s breath caught in her throat. She brushed a lock of hair away from Eve’s eyes. 

“But...but you being with another woman changes things,” said Eve. 

“No! Nothing has changed. We are as we were. And we will be better.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“I-I _want_ to believe you. I do. God, I do. I just-how do I _know_ , how can I know, how do I trust you again-”

“Okay, like this.” Villanelle cupped Eve’s jaw. Brushed her thumb across her chin, soothingly, back and forth, until Eve’s eyes fluttered shut. Her lips parted, her tongue darted out to wet them, and Villanelle sealed their lips together. 

A single kiss wasn’t enough; she grasped the back of Eve’s neck hard with one hand. Villanelle’s other hand buried itself in her hair. Eve crushed their bodies together, chased away the excess air between them fervently. Villanelle felt the strength rippling through Eve’s forearms, her abdominal muscles, the leanness of her thighs. That note of clarity within Villanelle reverberated into a choir singing praises for Eve.

“Is this enough?” rasped Villanelle. 

Eve held herself apart, panting. “I don’t know.”

“None of it meant anything,” Villanelle murmured. “Remember Hugo? With the Keeper, it was like that. I did not love her. I didn’t feel anything. There is no way she compared to you, it didn’t even feel the same. Eve, I swear.”

“Then why did you do it?”

Villanelle drew back to look upon Eve’s face fully. “I do not know how to deal with my feelings for you.”

Eve gasped. Villanelle pressed on.

“You have such a way with your attention, with your words, with the way that you are. With making me feel just so special and important. But all I have are these feelings welled up inside that I _can’t_ put words to. And it kills me, because I know it makes you think that for some reason, you are not as important to me as I am to you.

Somehow you always catch me off guard. I _know_ I feel the same joy at having you in my life, the same hunger, the same need to be close to you. I cannot even begin to express it. 

So please know Eve, there is nothing, _nothing,_ that I wouldn’t share with you. Just like I told you about cheating, just like I told you about Ana. I will be honest with you, know this. Anything, everything you want to know, I want to tell you. 

And yes, I want us to be together. Just you and me. No one else. Only us, together. Always.”

Eve squeezed Villanelle’s hand. 

“Okay Villanelle,” she finally said, her tone opaque. “But if you cheat on me again, I’ll kill you.”

“And if you leave me again Eve, I’ll kill you.”

Eve nodded curtly. She was silent for a few more moments. When she spoke again, she sounded like someone had turned her vocal chords inside out and restrung them to a wholly new pitch.

“We do so few things together.”

“This is actually true.”

“And I was thinking about what my wedding gift to you should be,” Eve continued softly. 

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. I realized that I didn’t get a chance to do anything important for you. And I want us to reaffirm our commitment to each other, to prove we can trust one another again with our lives.”

“Okay, Eve. How?”

Her eyes gleamed like polished obsidian stones.

“I want you to help me kill Niko.”


	15. A Cold War Trick

Villanelle thought that yet another seizure was making her hands tremble. But no, it wasn’t disease or madness that set her mind alight, clasped her breath, and made her quake. It was Eve’s voice, with an undertow of something unknown, something _wanting_ to be known; it was Eve’s flushed lips, honeyed with curiosity and temptation; it was the graceless, plain way she’d said it, said _it_ , proclaimed those words that now kicked Villanelle’s heart into overdrive and sent electric shocks zipping up her spine.

A soft sort of warmth suffused her. Then its counterpoint rushed in: a swelling current of surprise, pleasant and bright as a day spent strolling along the promenade. After-flashes of _I want you to help me kill Niko_ whirled around in Villanelle’s head, ruptured her chest open so that she could pull her heart out of its cage at last; offer it all to Eve, scarred yet whole, boundless and bloody and beating, thundering, in her electrified hands. 

And Villanelle _knew_ now that Eve would take it, would _adore_ taking it; would take a little bite out of Villanelle’s heart as if it were a juicy apple snatched from the Tree of Knowledge. 

Anna hadn’t even _wanted_ it, hadn’t even _considered_ it, hadn’t even wanted to _see_ it, to see Villanelle. Who she was, what she was capable of-there didn’t exist a language in the Tower of Babel that could translate Villanelle. But Anna hadn’t tried, had not made a genuine, honest-to-goodness effort to learn Villanelle’s heart; it remained, forever, a foreign language to Anna, indecipherable and too exotic to entertain as belonging to a full human being.

That had been the problem with Anna, realized Villanelle. Now that she was looking at Eve clearly past a mist of joyous tears, it was easy to see how different these two women were. Anna was offended and repulsed when Villanelle had killed Maxi. No, when Villanelle had _emancipated_ Anna. Her ungratefulness might have been forgiven if she hadn’t condemned Villanelle instead of embracing her. 

But Eve, darling Eve; here she was, sitting on the bed. Here she was, composed and self-possessed and gorgeous. Here she was, courageous and truthful and strong, asking for help, wanting _Villanelle’s_ guidance and presence and skills, aching to stand in the eye of her hurricane. Welcoming the rain, the thunder, the lightning; basking in it all. 

Which was why Villanelle didn’t let Eve look away. She stretched her hand out, fingers brushing against Eve’s jaw, and held her in place. And Eve, fascinating Eve, doll-like Eve, _flinched._ Recoiled as if she’d fired a gun at Villanelle after all, as if its force jerked her back just out of Villanelle’s reach. 

Eve exhaled; Villanelle inhaled. 

Held her breath. Met Eve’s fierce eyes. Eventually found her voice, and softly said:

“I will help you.”

In one fluid motion, Eve got off her bed. She straddled Villanelle, who tipped her head up, long blonde hair sprawling across her back, to meet Eve’s burning lips. A yearning whine grew in Villanelle’s throat as Eve peppered her face with kisses. On the corner of her mouth; just below her ear, breath ghosting over Villanelle’s neck; along her jawline; spreading heat at the hollow of her throat; then a searching, craving, long kiss on Villanelle’s lips. 

She felt Eve swimming in her bloodstream, especially when Eve angled her hips down harder and grasped Villanelle’s shoulders to keep herself cantered, fingernails digging through the thin material. 

“I can ask you anything, huh?”

Villanelle nodded. “Anything.”

Eve blinked. “What is it like?”

“Wet.”

Villanelle tugged insistently at the bottom of Eve’s shirt while she placed wet kisses onto the flushed sides of her throat. Eve swallowed hard. Her grip tightened. 

“How did you feel,” rasped Eve, “after your first time?”

“Like a real person,” Villanelle whispered into Eve’s ear. 

She shivered when Eve slowly rutted against her in response, melting at the feel of her breasts tight against Villanelle’s. Eve’s hands cupped the back of Villanelle’s head, gathering her hair in fistfuls there, while Villanelle’s hands skated up and down Eve’s sides. 

“Now do _I_ get to ask anything I want?” 

“Sure.”

Villanelle placed her palm over Eve’s galloping heart. 

“Do you-do you still want me? For more than just the killing?”

The force of Eve’s kiss made Villanelle flop down onto the bed. The covers pooled around them. Eve murmured _I do I do I do_ against Villanelle’s mouth, until her breathing broke down at the feel of Villanelle’s one hand sliding slyly between Eve’s legs, causing a rough moan to tumble free.

Villanelle inhaled sharply when her fingers found the growing wet spot seeping through Eve’s pants. Something pointy dug into the small of Villanelle’s back. Momentarily distracted, she took her hand away (Eve whimpered and looked down at her pleadingly) to fumble beneath the bed sheets. Her fingers curled around the cold, thin metal of a letter opener that had been haphazardly tossed across the room. 

Eve’s gaze fixed on its shiny point. Villanelle watched her lips part, noticed the smallest tilt of her head that loosened a few curls, observed the way that Eve’s shoulders slumped forward just a bit. 

Villanelle pressed the edge of the blade to the right side of Eve’s face and felt like Delilah standing over Samson, poised to learn the source of his divine power. Villanelle smirked when Eve angled her head so that it was more flush against the edge. 

“Does it hurt more with a knife?” asked Eve.

“That depends,” Villanelle answered, lazily dragging the point of the letter opener between Eve’s breasts, “on where you put it.”

And there it was, that _curiosity_ sparking in Eve’s eyes like fireflies chasing each other through a dark cave. She paid keen _attention_ to the path that Villanelle traced with the letter opener. Over Eve’s collarbone. Her shoulder. Her ribs. Down to the front of her thighs, pausing at her waist. Then slowly, slowly, dragging the tip to the spot where there was a knife scar on Villanelle’s body; except on Eve’s body, _just there_ , it was a mirrored echo of pain, of release. A déjà vu of something that hadn’t happened yet, still flickering on the event horizon like a coming storm. 

Villanelle pressed the point in just enough to strain the fabric of Eve’s shirt. Her eyes stuttered closed. She let her head fall back. Her hair tumbled down past her breasts. Villanelle rubbed her cheek against the curls, deeply breathing in Eve’s heady scent. She made Eve arch her spine when she scraped her teeth against one of Eve’s firm, pronounced nipples. Then she chased it with her hot breath and made Eve gasp when she sucked it to aching. 

One of Villanelle’s hands had slipped beneath Eve’s shirt to trail halfway up the warm, smooth expanse of her back. Villanelle’s other hand gripped the letter opener tightly; she pressed the flat of the blade against Eve’s other nipple while at the same time, she suckled on the sides of Eve’s delightfully sensitive neck. 

Eve’s hands were fumbling to undo the belt of Villanelle’s pants. Once they’d opened, Eve thrust one hand inside immediately. Her fingertips brushed against the lace of Villanelle’s soaked panties. She could feel Eve grin into the crown of her head. Villanelle sighed into Eve’s chest as Eve dragged a finger over the length of her cunt. Then pure, unrestrained heat jolted throughout Villanelle when Eve rubbed her swollen, throbbing clit in languid and deliberate circles. Villanelle squirmed as Eve stroked her, stroked and stroked and just kept on stroking, even when Villanelle couldn’t stifle her moan. 

Now the letter opener’s point lingered on the femoral artery of Eve’s thigh. 

“If you cut here,” Villanelle managed to say, “there will be lots of blood. Just...bleeding out. You remember?”

“Yes.”

The point transferred to Eve’s sternum. Biting, nicking at the fabric of her shirt. Villanelle fought to keep her voice light and unaffected while Eve dipped her hand behind the lace panties to apply more pressure. Villanelle’s eyes slipped closed; her world narrowed down to the tips of Eve’s slick fingers, their merciless, exploratory rhythm and the dripping pleasure they left in their wake. 

Eve said, “I want to take my time.”

Villanelle dug the point in a bit more, as if to emphasize her statement. “It is difficult to push through bone. Like here. But...it hurts a lot when you do. Especially when you push it in slowly.”

Eve slid her hand back out. Watched Villanelle watching her lick the pearly coating off her fingers until the residue glossed Eve’s lips entirely. Villanelle felt her body shake with _want_ , entranced by Eve’s blissfully glazed expression. Starving, Villanelle kissed Eve; open-mouthed, her tongue lapping at flavourful lips, her teeth nibbling and tugging, inviting Eve to crush their lips together again and again. 

“I don’t want there to be anything left when we’re finished,” Eve said breathlessly. “I don’t want any reminders.”

Villanelle finally pressed the letter opener under Eve’s soft throat. She breathed fast and hard. Locked her gaze with Villanelle’s. Tilted her chin down ever so slightly, so that the point hovered just shy of rupturing her skin. Villanelle’s hand trembled. 

“Here, you can prevent much noise. Like the screaming and the pleading and the annoying bargaining. And there is plenty of blood.”

“And pain?”

“Oh yes. Rivers of pain. And power.”

Eve tenderly brushed her lips over Villanelle’s knuckles. But when Villanelle cast aside the letter opener and moved to pull Eve’s shirt off, she stiffened. Seized Villanelle’s wrists. Seemed to fold in on herself like a flower cut down in the zenith of its blooming. 

“What is wrong?”

“I-please. Keep my shirt on.”

Villanelle’s brow furrowed. “But I want to see your body.”

“I know. I-I want you to see it too. Except.” Eve cut herself off with the embers of self-loathing rising in her eyes. Threatening to become a devastating blaze. 

Villanelle recognized that look all too well. Which was why she also recognized that it did not suit Eve. Not at all. 

“I understand. My body is quiet now. I can...loosen your body. Make it quiet, too. Only if you would like me to. Would you like me to, Eve?”

“Yes.”

Slowly, reverently, Villanelle dragged Eve’s shirt upwards. She looked at Eve, wide eyed, as she moved her wet mouth along scarred and bruised skin. Up and up the shirt went, followed by Villanelle’s feather-light kisses. Her tongue retraced the path on her way down, flicking along thin, pale lines. 

Villanelle lingered on a laceration that ran from the left side of Eve’s ribs to just above her navel. She cooed as she brought her lips to it. Felt Eve shiver. Considered the stillness of her own body, the sedation of the drugs as they kept the tremors and stiffness at bay. Tipped her head back to watch Eve as her fingers began to undo the top buttons of Villanelle’s blouse. 

There was a sharp knock on the door. Konstantin barged into the room carrying a tote bag. 

“Oh. I am so glad that you two are...talking again.”

Eve sighed and removed her hands. Villanelle craned her head to look at Konstantin, her hands working to clasp her belt closed. 

“This had better be important.”

He put the tote bag on the edge of the bed. “Open it.”

Villanelle exchanged glances with a blushing Eve, who hastily pulled her shirt back on. Villanelle wrenched the tote bag open, tossed aside the tissue paper, and lifted out an elegant silver snakeskin box. She popped open the lid to reveal dual ivory-coloured, gold inscribed pistols that were nestled in silk.

“Those are semi-automatic Colts, thirty-eight Super caliber,” explained Konstantin. “My wedding gift to you.”

Villanelle whistled as she grasped the pistols by their double diamond, rosewood grips. “They are light!”

“I had them especially made to accommodate your...condition. The casing is hollowed, for weight relief. So reloading will be quicker, although the magazines are heavier thanks to how fat the bullets are. You should be able to shoot through anything. Mostly.”

Villanelle aimed at the chandelier above them and fired. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Eve did not even flinch at the cracking boom of the shot or the crystallized crunching crash as the chandelier fell to the floor, narrowly missing Konstantin. Two large smoking holes tore through the plaster ceiling. 

Villanelle brushed the residue off her shoulders. “Thank you, Konstantin.”

“My pleasure. I have not forgotten about you Eve,” he added. He reached into his overcoat to produce a little blue bottle. Eve took it, rattled it, unscrewed the cap, and peered inside incredulously.

“What the hell are these?”

“Cyanide pills.”

“Villanelle gets guns, but I get _cyanide_ pills? Thanks for the vote of confidence!”

Konstantin grinned. “The pills are actually for you both.”

“Why?”

“A Cold War trick. People used to believe that Russian agents had a tooth filled with cyanide. For when things became, how you say, too much.” Konstantin gnashed his teeth together. “They would bite into the poison before they could be captured for torture or executed. Except it was not actually a tooth. It was mostly in pills or powders. But the point is that the agents always preferred to choose their own death.”

“You’re giving us a way out when it gets too much?” Eve twisted some curls around her fingers. “That’s not very reassuring.”

“There are six pills in total. You must take three each, and you must take them all at once. Together.”

“That is overkill, don’t you think?” asked Villanelle.

“Cyanide takes about thirty minutes to work. But it leaves the body quickly after death, usually within ten minutes. So just trust me and take them.”

Villanelle rolled her eyes and placed the pistols back in the box, which she neatly returned to the tote bag. Eve promptly tossed the pill bottles in right after. Konstantin patted his pockets for his buzzing iPhone. His eyebrows shot up as he read the incoming text messages.

“It is Carolyn. She wants to have a teleconference call with us.”

They made their way to one of the meeting rooms on the ground floor. It had a large television screen, a long ebony table surrounded by plush leather chairs, and walls covered with peeling wallpaper. The air was stuffy, as if the hotel had allowed smoking at one point, only to forbid it later on, but forgot that there were no windows. 

Eve and Villanelle sat beside each other. Konstantin cast the call onto the screen from his phone. They drew back at the sudden projection of an oversized, looming Carolyn. Konstantin tweaked the communication until Carolyn’s light coughs clearly drifted into the room. She clutched a teacup in her talons and addressed them with a simpering air. 

“Thank you for this meeting. There are matters of great importance for us to discuss.”

Eve leaned forward. “Can you hear me?”

“Quite well.”

“Great. Because I want you to know upfront that we have conditions.”

Carolyn blinked. Her eyes flicked over to Villanelle, who had put her feet up on the table. 

“Villanelle. You’re still alive.”

“I sure am!”

“Splendid.” Carolyn looked like she had swallowed an especially bitter bit of lemon. “I’m afraid the situation has escalated yet again. INTERPOL found the officer’s body in Lille. Along with the knife that you used to castrate him.”

“So?”

“So they are finding it rather difficult to explain why the DNA found on that knife belongs to a woman who died in Russian prison ten years ago.” 

Villanelle shrugged. “It is a conspiracy.”

“What do you want us to do?” asked Konstantin wearily. 

“Us? What do you mean us?” Eve glared at him.

“I am coming with you. For the logistics.”

“I think we can handle ourselves without any adult supervision.”

“That is not up to your discretion,” Carolyn interjected smoothly. “We’ve all seen the results of your extraordinarily poor judgement.” 

Eve clasped her hands tightly in front of her. “What do you want from us, Carolyn?”

“Three USBs are still outstanding. In Italy, the United States, and Canada. I want you to finish the mission.”

Villanelle’s mind tripped on itself. Pieces of information scattered like ashes to the wind. “The iPad is gone,” she blurted.

“That is why you will gather the remaining USBs and deliver them directly to The Ghost.”

Eve chuckled. Villanelle propped her chin onto one hand and gazed at her adoringly.

“Alright, Carolyn. That’ll work. But only if you agree to our conditions.”

“You are not in any position to-”

“Bargain? Oh, but I am.”

She turned to Konstantin. He was half out of his seat already. 

“Yes?” he asked expectantly. 

“Go and get them.”

Villanelle engaged in a staring contest with Carolyn until Konstantin returned. Shock curdled in her stomach as he dragged two squealing brats behind him, thrusting them in full view of the television. Eve’s voice took on an edge that made Villanelle sit up straight in her chair. 

“The Ghost thinks her kids are safe. And they will be, if you come through on your end. They’re your big bargaining chip, aren’t they?”

Carolyn raised the teacup to her lips. Even across the digital, slightly delayed distance, Villanelle saw that it was shaking.

“Hostages, Eve? Good lord. I thought better of you.”

“Think again. Here’s what’s going to happen: Villanelle and I will get those USBs. And we’ll get them without any problems. Won’t we Carolyn?” 

Eve leaned over the table, spine taught, poised to dive into the screen. 

“No drone ambushes. No mysterious figures tracking us. No sniper fire early in the morning. No sudden arrests. And above all Carolyn, no going back on your word.

Because you’ll lose your precious bargaining chip if you do. Tell The Ghost that if we live, so do her kids.”

Carolyn set the teacup back down carefully. She very nearly yawned. 

“I will accommodate whatever conditions enhance your performance. But The Ghost will still collect the USBs from you when you’re done.”

“We’re counting on it.”

Villanelle rubbed Eve’s shoulders when Konstantin ended the call, easing away the tension. She tucked some curls behind Eve’s ear as well. 

“Before we leave this place,” Konstantin grunted to Eve, “you should wipe the cameras.”

“Or we could just shoot them!”

“Sure, Villanelle. But that won’t take care of the footage.”

Villanelle swung the tote bag impatiently as she watched Eve work behind the concierge desk. Her brow furrowed in deep concentration as she typed and clicked away. Eventually, she announced that she was done. Villanelle was halfway out the door by the time that Eve’s flat voice caught up to her. 

“Konstantin, about The Ghost’s kids…”

“Yes?”

“Get rid of them,” said Eve.

* * *

The Piazza Ognissanti was an elegant, spacious square that faced the sparkling Arno river. A Franciscan church of solemn beauty presided over various hotels, cafès, and palazzos with créme coloured facades. This historic center of Florence was topped by slanting terracotta roofs that matched the red-tiled dome of the colossal Il Duomo towering in the distance. 

During the day, the square bustled with tourists. Parked cars sidled up to the entrances of buildings. Stray dogs, along with streams of people (especially joggers making their way along the Arno’s banks to the nearby Ponte Vecchio) clogged the crosswalks and the narrow streets joined by drifting laundry lines. Clusters of flowers adorned the base of the statue placed prominently in the center of the square: Hercules battling the Nemean lion. A few red rose petals drifted away in the crisp breeze like droplets of blood wiped away from a blade’s edge. 

By the time the night sky spread like a diamond-strewn blanket over Florence, tents lined the perimeter of the square. Long tables groaning under the weight of the very best meats, pastas, spices, and flowers that Florence had to offer were also set up along the square’s rectangular length. The smell of spilled wine and the sound of sizzling grills wafted through the air. Music blared over the sound of shouting, laughing crowds. 

Florence was celebrating the Carnevale tonight. Vibrant, playfully coloured fireworks exploded overhead. Villanelle drifted through a cluster of cheering teenagers. Some were dressed in festive costumes and masks, while others simply wore contemporary clothing and swilled cheap beer. 

Villanelle wore a dazzling burgundy and gold dress adorned with pearls. The embroidery around the hem and at the end of the funnel sleeves was braided. The most striking aspect of her ensemble was the mask she wore. It was shaped in the form of the radiant sun, gold flaked and covering the upper portion of Villanelle’s face. Her hair spilled behind the mask’s edges like rays of light. 

Eve followed closely. She wore a navy blue damask satin, floral patterned dress that was finished with silver ribbons and small, lighter blue roses adorning the bodice. Eve’s mask hid her entire face. It was pale white and covered on the left side with macramé lace silver decorations representing the moon. Burnished blue paint flowed from the mask’s corners, smudged beneath the eyes, and graced the crown. 

Eve and Villanelle steadily broke through to the edges of the square. Villanelle glanced behind her to make sure that Eve still kept pace as they walked briskly down the cobblestoned streets awash with moonlight. Groups of revellers stumbled alongside, their shouts echoing down the avenues. Mopeds sped by. The fireworks continued to flare, reflected in the shimmering waters of the Arno. 

The Ponte Vecchio arched over its surface, connecting the two sides of Florence thanks to its ancient oak and stone construction. Shops on each side of the bridge were stuffed to bursting with people. Bright yellow, orange, beige, and blue painted apartments crammed together. Strings of banners swayed in the refreshing night breeze. The windows all across the bridge had wooden shutters forged with the city’s crest, a stylized lily not unlike the fleur de lis. 

A jewelry shop, whose exterior resembled a little wooden chest, intrigued Villanelle thanks to its opulent window displays. One-of-a-kind high quality necklaces, brooches, bracelets and rings glimmered beneath the focused lights. Villanelle guided Eve inside with a reassuring hand around her waist. She couldn’t stop gasping in awe every other second, which made Villanelle’s heart flutter, and bombarded the shopkeeper with requests to touch several impressive pieces. 

Villanelle observed a pair of wedding rings encased by lightly frosted glass. They caught her eye because they were fashioned from gold that was liquified into the deep, rich shade of blood and moulded into the form Ouroboros, the snake that ate its own tail. Twin fiery rubies served as its twinkling eyes, with fine onyx incisions for its scales. 

The shop owner offered the rings for Villanelle’s consideration. She could see that their level of craftsmanship was exquisite, the quality of the gold unmistakably high, and the level of detail exceptional. Eve’s mask obscured her reaction when Villanelle bought the rings; even her usually expressive eyes gave nothing away. But when she shed her plastic ring outside, letting it drop into the river below, Villanelle saw that her hands shook. 

With their newly exchanged rings glinting in the moonlight, Eve and Villanelle made their way to the Uffizi gallery. They walked on the polished black and white checkered floor, gazed up at the ornate ceiling frescoes, and wandered past vast collections of ancient sculptures and paintings. They kept on walking, but still, there was no sign of any Keeper.

Villanelle felt the back of her neck prickle as she turned a corner. A large sculpture exhibition room was ahead; Eve swept past Villanelle to enter it first. The walls were painted crimson in order to contrast the thick golden frames which displayed the terse, rational simplicity and unnaturally bright colours of Renaissance painting. 

A reclining marble statue rested on a raised iron platform in the middle of the room. Its pose was dramatic, the detailing of its flowing silk robe extravagant. A contemplative air exuded from it, inviting the viewer to take a moment of reflection for themselves. 

The Keeper’s body sagging across the statue’s lap completely diminished the exhibition’s intended effect. 

Eve reached out to place a hand on the corpse's brow.

“It’s...still warm.”

Villanelle peered deeply the Keeper’s dull eyes. 

“There is no sign of struggle.”

Eve patted the body down. The Keeper’s dress shirt pockets and jean pockets; his wallet and even the inside pockets of his blazer-all were empty. Eve wrenched her moon mask off. Her face was flushed with fury.

“There’s no USB!”

“Eve-”

“The Ghost got here before us!”

“Then she just saved us the trouble, didn’t she?” 

Villanelle took off her own mask. She tossed it against the Keeper’s chest, where it slid down and clattered to the floor miserably. The sight of Eve absent-mindedly thumbing her new wedding ring made Villanelle smile fondly. 

“If that’s how she wants to play it, then there doesn’t seem to be any hurry for us to get these USBs, Eve.” Villanelle gently turned Eve to face her, soothing away Eve’s distraught expression with the softest kisses along her jawline. “Why don’t we finish our personal mission instead?”

Eve brightened. “That’s a good idea.”

Villanelle waltzed Eve out of the exhibition, their dresses flaring behind them, down the grand Uffizi hallways, and all the way to a public telephone situated beside a fancy vase. Villanelle called Niko’s school in a Scouse British accent because that was the one that seemed to impressive Eve the most. After a rather boring and mostly useless conversation with the stubbornly secretive secretary, Villanelle managed to extricate the information that made Eve’s eyes light up. 

“Niko is on a leave of absence. Already he has been gone for a few weeks.”

“Where?”

“Sanok, in Poland.”

The snake that devoured its own tail forever seemed to stir at Eve’s beatific smile; Villanelle felt its fangs sink into her veins and she shuddered with anticipation. 


	16. The Meaning Of Death

“Want another round?”

Niko glanced up from his drained beer glass. His red-rimmed eyes fixed on the clock above the wall of liquor. 

“Better not. It’s after hours.”

His companion, Kasper, shrugged and ordered another beer for himself anyway. He was a strange guy for sure, thought Niko. Always wore the same threadbare sweater, baggy vest, and working gloves. A cap pressed low over his brow. Didn’t seem to give a damn for his fraying beard and moustache. And he had one of the thickest Polish accents that Niko had ever heard; he almost regretted bandying about the surname Polastri in such a small, quintessentially Polish town.

It had a nice market square surrounded by monumental buildings, a fountain, and a church. Wooden cottages with rustic gardens layered the countryside, especially near the banks of the steep San River flowing swiftly down the brooding mountains. Stout wooden windmills poked up from sprawling fields. 

The same splintered, dark wood seemed to be used for all the tables and stools in this folksy bar. Its interior was cluttered with threshes, cradles, wreathes, lace tablecloths, and antique, creaky furniture. 

“You should really have another drink,” insisted Kasper. “You have many troubles for them, yeah?”

Niko gave a short, barking laugh. “Seriously, I think I’ve told you enough.” 

Kasper grinned. “I am not tired of hearing about your horrible wife.”

Niko eyed the beer that Kasper slid over. He reached out for it hesitantly. Then all at once, he seized it. Drops slid down from the corners of Niko’s mouth as he glugged. The sound of the glass being slammed down on the heavy countertop echoed throughout the empty bar.

“I’ve only known you for a few weeks but...I trust you. I guess.”

Kasper nudged Niko’s arm with his elbow. His eyes shone mischievously. “I am regular here, just like you. So I promise, I will tell you about my wife if you finish telling me about yours.”

“Okay, okay.” Niko dragged a sigh into his sore lungs. “Christ. Where did I leave off last week?”

“Um. You were just telling me about the storage.”

Niko mumbled into the hands that covered his face. “Gemma. Oh, god.”

“Did you love her?”

“No! I-I just. She was there for me.”

“And this Eve, your wife. She wasn’t?”

“She-she left me for a psycho. A complete psycho!”

“Maybe your wife is psycho then, too.”

“Yeah. Yeah maybe. Aren’t most women these days?”

Kasper laughed. It came out all strained, as if his tongue was fighting against his mouth to suppress the sound.

“Everybody a little crazy. Don’t you think so?”

Niko slurped more beer. “I. Am not crazy.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not! I did what I had to do.”

“Oh, yeah. You were telling me about that.”

“Look, I didn’t feel safe. After-after Gemma. The police wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t go back to work. It was awful. Just awful.”

“So you blamed Eve for the murder?”

“She practically killed Gemma!” Niko’s voice cracked. “She’s the one who got close to that psycho, that Villanelle! She’s the one who chose work over me, who decided to get all dykey and whore herself out for a fucking psycho!” 

Kasper sipped his beer. “If I ever cheated, my wife would kill me.”

Niko’s head snapped to look over at Kasper. “Yeah, well. My wife can’t kill me if she’s in jail.”

“That is usually where the crazy ones go.” Kasper nodded sagely. “Jail or the asylum. Not that they are too different!”

“Yeah.”

“Why would Eve want to kill you, Niko?”

“I don’t know, she’s fucking crazy! She researches female serial killers for a living. Okay? That’s...that’s disturbing. And she’d rather do that than be with me. She’d rather fuck a psycho than be with me!”

“You are right. But she is in jail now. And you are safe. You put her in jail to be safe.”

“Right.” Niko gripped the beer glass tightly. “That’s why I’m here. Just. Trying to disappear. Start all over again. No one knows my name here. There’s no memories. And she’ll never find me here.”

“That was a very clever thing to do. Putting your wife in jail. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Really?”

Kasper clapped Niko on the back. “I am proud of you! You made yourself safe.”

“Thanks. Um. I’m going to the loo.”

Niko trudged into the dimly lit washroom with its cracked urinals and yellowed sinks. He caught his reflection in one of the dirty mirrors; dark circles under his eyes from all the sleepless nights, lines of worry etched into the skin on his forehead and mouth, pale demeanour and drooping expression. He resembled a thin, wet dog. 

The door opened. Niko looked over his shoulder as Kasper entered with a wave, his hands lingering on his half-undone belt.

“D’you mind?”

“No, no. Please! Go ahead.”

Niko turned back to the urinal. His neck flushed red. His cheeks burned. Wincing at the pressure in his bloated bladder, Niko unzipped his fly. He was just about to start relieving himself when Kasper appeared at the urinal beside him. He removed his working gloves and his eyes flicked down to Niko’s penis expectantly.

“Don’t mind me. You’d never be able to measure up anyway.”

“Excuse me?”

Kasper grinned. “I will tell you about my wife now.”

Niko gritted his teeth against the insistent, pounding pressure of his bladder. That last beer had been a mistake.

“I love my wife,” said Kasper. “I appreciate her. I mean, she cannot cook for shit. But she is smart. Very smart. Inspiring. Intense. Absolutely gorgeous.”

Kasper shrugged off his vest. He reached underneath his shirt and started fiddling with something that was there on his chest. 

“I love her emotions. Sometimes she is mean. Actually, she is not a very nice person. She still tries to be. But deep down, I know she is troubled. I am troubled too. But it’s okay. Because I love her. And she loves me. We love each other, Niko. Do you understand?”

An anxious stream of piss splashed into the urinal.

“I love my wife,” Kasper continued, “and I would set the world on fire to keep her warm. I love her beautiful brown eyes. Her comforting voice. Her body excites me, her amazing mind even more.”

Kasper dragged out a bra-like thing from beneath his shirt. It fell to the floor. Niko kept pissing, his eyes wide as Kasper’s chest _expanded_ and suddenly two lumps-two _boobs-_ prodded through his shirt. He gazed at himself lovingly in the mirror. 

“My wife is good. She is. I am better with her and I want her to be better with me. Because yeah, it makes me feel good. But I am also thinking lately about us as a together thing. You know? It is strange. Like we are two people, but when we are together, we are just one. Whole.”

Kasper took off his cap to reveal sheathes of blonde hair tangled up into a messy, honey-gold bun. Then he ripped off his mustache and beard. The piss slowed to a trickle. 

“But you are boring. All you do is complain. You do not appreciate your wife. Which is why she is not your wife anymore. She is _mine_. Oh, and my favourite part about my wife is her dark, curly hair!”

Niko kept holding onto his penis even as he stared at the beaming Villanelle. 

“I gave Eve more pleasure for one night in Paris than you ever did in your entire pathetic life.”

Niko heard himself scream as Villanelle slammed his head into the mirror. The sound of smashed glass rang in his ears. Cuts and abrasions littered his face. Blood streamed from his gashed forehead, broken nose, and cheeks. Then he crumpled to the ground when Villanelle’s knee connected sharply with his balls. 

Air wheezed out of Niko’s lungs. He clasped his hands over his crotch protectively. His vision swam. He looked up and could barely make out Villanelle. But he heard her unmistakably gleeful voice. 

“Oh, Niko. I was always bigger and better than you.”

Villanelle’s swift kick to his jaw sent him spiraling into darkness. 

* * *

Eve hummed as she placed the last of the plastic sheets over the kitchen counter. The walls, floor, and ceiling had already been done earlier that evening. Sanok had a grand total of one decent hardware store, and it took a lot of explaining for Eve to convince the owner why she needed every available foot of plastic sheeting. But now, Eve stepped back to admire the kitchen’s pristine protective layer. 

She checked the microwave’s digital clock. Villanelle would probably return soon. Eve brewed herself a mug of tea and wandered through the cottage while she drank it. The rooms were rather lovely, consisting of a hunter’s den (complete with animal pelts thrown over the leather couch and a stone fireplace), the kitchen, and a loft for sleeping. The scent of pine pervaded the space. It was tucked away near the mouth of the river, in a clearing punctured by boulders and assorted rocks that had fallen from the mountain long ago.

The cottage that Eve and Villanelle were using as a hideout was much smaller than this one. It had only one room, which they’d propped sleeping bags in, and was situated at the mountain base. The town itself was fifteen minutes away by car, and they’d make trips on the pretense of grocery shopping. Eventually, Villanelle’s stalking skills had paid off when she’d finally spotted Niko in the milk aisle. 

Eve’s first instinct had been to attack. But it was Villanelle who’d suggested planning ahead; it was Villanelle that tracked him for days and days; it was Villanelle that slipped out with the shadows to find his cottage and report back; and it was Eve who suggested for Villanelle to pose as his drinking companion in order to subdue him. Then, only then, would things proceed according to plan. 

The kitchen table was bare except for a cluster of apples that served as its centerpiece. Eve washed the tea mug, carefully placed it back inside the cupboard, and sat at the head of the table. The plastic caved when she rested her elbows on the surface. She reached for the paring knife beside the colourful earthenware fruit bowl and peeled off a bit of the red apple’s skin. It looped down comically, limply. 

Eve glanced at the clock again. She shivered. Her body felt hot and cold. Nausea roiled like the sea, clashing with waves of pure euphoria. She felt that she was drowning inside herself, submerging that part of her that still gasped for air and fought against the current of her honed instincts. 

The front door opened and Villanelle’s sing-song voice drifted down the hallway. 

“Honey, I’m home!” 

She came into the kitchen moments later, dragging Niko’s body behind her. She discarded it by the sink, then moved to lean down and kiss Eve deeply. 

Eve’s veins roared to life. Her lips burned. She buried one hand into Villanelle’s’ hair as urgency poured between them. Dizzy and smiling, Eve pulled away with a smack of lips. 

“How are you holding up?” she asked. 

“Fine. Konstantin was right about the double dose of atropine.”

“As long as you’re okay.”

“I am more than okay. Are you?”

“Yeah.”

Now that she’d said it aloud, Eve realized that she _was._ Her hands weren’t shaking. Her mind felt clear and focused. Her breathing, accelerated by Villanelle’s intoxicating presence, was otherwise steady. Eve bit into the apple just as Niko was groaning back to consciousness. 

A void opened up in her chest while he dragged himself to his feet. It used to be a cold sensation, discomforting at best and paralyzing at worse. Now it expanded until it filled her up with serenity, like she was basking in sunlight after hiding for so long in shadow. 

Niko leaned heavily on the back of a chair. He opened his mouth to say something, but Eve spoke to Villanelle instead. 

“Did he fight back?”  
  
“Fight back? Him? Of course not!”

Eve chuckled. “He’s never fought for anyone or anything in his life. Never found something or someone worth killing for.”

Niko bolted for the door. Villanelle jolted out of her seat, caught him by the cuff of his coat sleeve. It slid off. Niko was halfway down the front hallway when Eve threw him off balance. They crashed to the floor. Villanelle grabbed Niko’s ankles and dragged him back to the kitchen, where she shoved him roughly into the chair adjacent to Eve’s. 

Sweat broke out on Eve’s brow when she sat back down. Her bottom lip quivered. But her face was calm. 

“What do you want, Niko?”

Blood from his nose crusted on his upper lip. His voice came out thickly clogged and muffled.  
  
“Eve. I-I want you to stop. Just stop this. Please. Stop it.”

“You see? He knows what he wants. Just like that!” sneered Eve. 

Villanelle’s chair scraped as she rejoined Eve at the table. She leaned her head against Eve’s shoulder, looked at Niko past her free-falling hair. 

“But he can’t even ask me what I want. Even if he did, I’ve been trained to never think about that. Conditioned to never ask _myself_ what _I_ want. Isn’t it always like that? Society simply tells you what you're _supposed_ to want. Then it imposes all these rules. To punish you if you don’t want what everyone else wants and you are never given any true choice at all.”

Eve raised Villanelle’s chin until they were within breathing distance of each other. Eve’s eyes were clear. Steady. Utterly honest.

“Niko has a small dick.”

Villanelle glanced at him, one eyebrow raised, then gazed down at his crotch as if her eyes could see through the thick table. 

“I know.” 

“He could never get it up. Or keep it up. He always wanted blowjobs from me but wouldn’t return the favour.”

Villanelle’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. “But you taste so good…”

Eve kissed her hard. She slipped her own tongue into Villanelle’s mouth. Breaths hot, head pounding, giving into the flying, soaring, wild exhilaration at the feel of Villanelle’s heated skin and the steam of her gasps. Eve’s brows drew together in an expression of almost painful yearning as Villanelle deepened the kiss and in turn entwined her tongue with Eve’s. She kissed up Villanelle’s neck with frenetic intensity. 

“Niko always started fast and ended even faster. Then he’d just fall asleep,” said Eve. “God, the only way I could ever get myself off was to fuck myself. It helped...to think of you. The best sex I’ve ever had is in your arms. You make feel like a real woman, Villanelle.” 

For one precious, coveted, eternal instant, Eve felt that she _was_ Villanelle: the beat of her heart, the purity of her intent, the motion of her lips, the passion and the truth of her love shining in her hazel eyes. Eve brushed soft words against her mouth as though she spoke a prayer to the stars:

“I love you, Villanelle. I am yours. In life and in death. Whatever you do, wherever you are, no matter how far apart we are, we will always be one. Never doubt me, my love. I am yours.”

And even as Eve pulled away to finally exult in the sight of a shattered, mortified Niko, she felt Villanelle flowing into her and through her and every atom of her. 

“Murder has always been in your thoughts. Hasn’t it?” asked Niko. “You were just waiting for someone to give you permission to act.”

Darkness came over Eve’s face. “I don’t need anyone’s permission.”

Something stirred behind her incandescent eyes. She let her hair down. 

A wave of tingling started at the base of Eve’s skull and spread over her whole body in a slow-motion shockwave. She inhaled a thin stream of air; into herself with the air she brought pain and guilt and remorse, and as she exhaled, they trailed away and vanished in the same breath.

Niko’s hand darted for the paring knife. 

Eve was faster. She reversed the blade and rammed it into Niko’s right hand with a wet crunch. Blood geysered. Niko’s screams sounded like they tore his throat open. 

Villanelle pressed both of her hands overtop of Eve’s white-knuckled grip. She pushed down harder until their combined weight on the knife’s handle impaled Niko’s palm firmly to the table. 

While he shrieked in agony and tried to pry the knife loose, Villanelle rummaged around the kitchen drawers and cabinets. She sorted through forks, glasses, pans, pots, and dishes to find two more knives: a thinner, longer boning knife and a steak knife. 

It was the steak knife that she shoved into Niko’s other palm. Eve restrained his left hand as Villanelle pushed the blade in. Slowly. Eve’s nostrils flared at the sight of blood oozing and squirting from the widening wound where Villanelle relentlessly brought all her weight to bear on the quivering handle. 

Niko howled and sobbed and blubbered. Eve saw his forearms tremble, saw his legs jerk wildly, saw the piss flowing down his jeans and spilling onto the floor over the edges of the chair. He breathed brokenly. His eyes rolled wildly. 

Eve bent down to whisper into his ear:

“Scream all you like, Niko.  We’re miles away from anyone.  Nobody is going to hear you. Nobody is going to save you.”

Grinning, Villanelle flicked the boning knife. It gleamed as she brought it against Niko’s moustache. She curved the edge downwards, slid it all along to the other side of his mouth. Niko screamed even louder as Villanelle shaved away his moustache-along with most of his upper lip. 

Eve watched, transfixed, as Villanelle carved deeper. Peeled the skin back, then entirely off, exposing Niko’s glistening red gums and the starkness of his teeth. Niko couldn’t even scream properly; Eve flinched at the blood squirting forth to stain the collar of her shirt and then her throat. Villanelle sat back down, her chin reddened. She tossed her hair jovially. Set the sodden knife down near the bowl of apples. 

Eve reached into the bottom drawer, the one beneath the meat grinder and the potatoes and the cloves of garlic and the carrots and the corn splayed out on the counter. She found a metal mallet used for breaking through the scales of the many catfish found in the San river. Niko squealed at Eve’s steady approach. He twisted his torso in vain, tried to wrench his hands up so that they could somehow slide free. 

A strained cry made it past Niko’s bottom lip when Eve dragged his chair back. His knees were exposed. They jittered up and down. Eve hefted the mallet. She brought it down first on the fingers of Niko’s left hand. They broke, veins darkening and exploding instantly to pool slick blood into the surface of the wine-dark table. Eve slammed the mallet onto the fingers of Niko’s right hand next. 

Her ears rang. She breathed raggedly. Her hair spilled across her forehead, tumbled messily down her back and past her shoulders, swayed into motion with every swing of the mallet. Eve pounded it against both of Niko’s knees in quick succession. She gasped at the thumping, weighty feel of fracturing bone and its bursting sound. She removed the chair from under Niko. Chuckled as he pitched forward. Went down to his knees. The table was askew, much to Villanelle’s disdain; she shook her head at Niko’s twitching hands that were sticky with blood.

Eve grasped a fistful if Niko’s mangy hair and yanked his head back with a snap. 

“Everything that The Ghost did to me, I’m going to give right back to you.”

“Sorry! I d-didn’t know! Sorry! P-please stop!”

Eve turned away to reach for a glass pitcher. She smashed it over Niko’s head. Bits of broken glass lodged in his hair. A grating sigh rattled from him. He sagged, but Eve viciously slapped him back to consciousness before it could slip fully away. The matte handle of a frying pan was suddenly cool against her wandering fingers. Eve poured some oil into it and turned the stove to maximum heat.

She observed Villanelle while the oil steadily heated. Her elbows were on the table. Her mouth was slightly parted. Leaning as far forward as the table would allow, her eyes were hungry and feral. She devoured Eve with a searing gaze that sharpened every single one of her senses. 

“Please! Eve, s-stop!” yelled Niko. “I-I never wanted t-to hurt you!”

Eve took the pan off the quieted stove. The oil hissed and spat. Sloshed around. Dripped along the brim. Villanelle’s eyebrows shot up as Eve stood poised over Niko’s shoulder. 

“l l-love you Eve!” 

Eve hesitated. The oil sizzled. She caught her distorted reflection in its ripples. Her face was pale. Lines of exhaustion surrounded her lightless eyes. Her mouth was locked in a cruel, firm line. Then she glanced at Villanelle and her breath hitched.

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Villanelle’s face seemed softened by affection. Her gaze was steady. Accepting. Welcoming. There wasn’t a hint of misgiving or caution to the tilt of her head, not a single note of tension vibrating in her hands. There was only the resolute fire burning in her eyes that matched the growing inferno roaring within Eve. 

She tugged Niko’s sweat-stained collar aside and poured some of the boiling hot oil down his back. It ate through his button-down shirt instantly. His incoherent curses and pleas were swallowed up by the sheer volume of his screams. The oil corroded his flesh away, revealing the shining meat beneath, quickly followed by the gory bone as the white-hot temperatures liquified everything in their dripping path. 

Eve squinted; that was definitely Niko’s spine poking through the melted fabric and sinew. 

The rest of the oil was poured down his shoulders and torso. Scorching strips of skin apart. Flowing and oozing to strip away his façade of normalcy and every semblance of nicety. With his body peeled and blood still leaking from his impaled hands, Niko’s screaming took on a desperate, defiant undertone. 

Gagging from the stench of cooked flesh, tasting the rusty flavour of blood on her tongue, Eve twisted the knives in Niko’s palms before she tore them out. He dropped to the floor with a thud. Shuffled and jerked on the plastic-covered tiles. Scrambled against the drawers. Smeared long streaks of blood in the wake of his useless legs and hands. 

Eve took the drenched boning knife and buried it handle-deep in the soft mass between Niko’s neck and his shoulder. He writhed. Howled. She dragged him to his feet, propped him against the kitchen sink. Streams of blood cascaded down the plastic sheets to pool around Eve’s feet. 

Then she took the steak knife and dragged it slowly-oh, so slowly-across Niko’s abdomen. The blade’s path shredded more skin off; Niko dragged his bulging eyes up to meet Eve’s stony gaze. With a smirk, Eve breached the knife deep enough to make Niko look down just in time to see his guts begin to fall out. 

“Fuck y-you and that fucking psychopathic bit-”

Eve plunged the steak knife into Niko’s chest. His mouth gaped, eyes aflame; she rotated the knife before wrenching it back out. Blood fountained, turning to mist. Then Eve sank the blade in again. Widened the wound. Took the knife out. Rammed it inside once more. She stabbed Niko’s chest over and over, slathered herself in blood past her elbows, soaked the entire front of her blouse. 

Shivering, drowning in an exhilarating haze, Eve dragged the knife deeply through Niko’s chest and past his shoulder. She ruptured veins and muscles and just opened Niko to flow out of his own existence. Eve stepped into the blood spray with her eyes closed and her head tilted back. She was drenched in a matter of moments. When Niko finally collapsed, she looked upon what she had done; the revulsion she felt was real, and it was powerful, and it was-

Interesting.

Eve turned to look at Villanelle. The blood had arced across the table to splash her face. She crouched beside Niko just in time to watch the life drain from his eyes. Eve’s touch made her whirl around. Gasping, she pushed Villanelle up against the sink and kissed her until their breaths roughened. The scent of Villanelle’s perfume mingled with the dry stench of death, along with wet metal fused with the earthen heaviness of sweat. 

It went to her head, Eve supposed, this terrible mixture of freedom and victory and belonging that surged through her as Villanelle’s arms tightened around her waist. Her hands soon clawed up Eve’s back. Her lips hungrily joined Eve’s with no intention of pulling away. Eve latched onto every barely concealed moan, each needy grip and craving caress.

Strands of hair. Moist, quivering breaths. Spit. Hot skin. Saturated fabric clinging to Eve’s chest, arms, legs. Slippery blood on her fingers and cheeks, throat and chest. Painted on Villanelle with long, loving strokes that made her eyes blaze. Eve could feel the blood crusting between her fingers. Dampening the palm of her hand. Gathering at the corner of her mouth to be tenderly kissed away by Villanelle’s lips. 

An insistent throbbing gathered between Eve’s legs. Her heart raced at the feel of Villanelle’s mouth on the side of her neck; slouching down to press it on Eve’s sore nipples; sucking through the stained material. Eve let her head fall back. Villanelle caught her cascading curls with a grin. Her composure slipped as soon as she felt Eve grind her hips forward, then keep them there while she drew every coveted breath from Villanelle. 

Flush against the sink, Villanelle grasped the back of Eve’s thighs. She moaned softly. Teasingly raised one leg to bring herself even _closer_ against Villanelle. Suddenly, Villanelle heaved Eve up; with a breathy, hysterical chuckle, she wrapped her legs tightly around Villanelle’s waist and let herself be carried into the den. The grace with which Villanelle stepped through guts and gore was nothing short of astonishing; all Eve could do when Villanelle set her down onto the sofa was to cling desperately onto the animal pelts that eventually slid down the leather, thanks to the sheer force of Villanelle’s kisses. 

Eve panted beneath Villanelle. Grunted when Villanelle tugged her pants down and her shirt off; twitched impatiently as Villanelle fumbled with her bra clasp; held her breath to somehow steady her hands enough to undress Villanelle in turn; closed her eyes and fell into the rhythmic, undeniable pulsing of her clit against her very, very wet panties; shook and trembled, trembled and shook with her breath hot in the back of her throat. 

Waited. Held herself still. Ached. Wanted. _Needed_ to feel Villanelle’s soft lips and her wiry strength and her smooth skin. Eve’s hands flew into Villanelle’s hair at the first drag of her tongue along Eve’s silken panties. She tried to keep her hips from bucking as Villanelle circled her clit, but the failed attempt only earned her a wicked glare from Villanelle. She dragged the panties off with her teeth, never once tearing her eyes away from the growing rapture on Eve’s face.

Villanelle slid two fingers deep inside Eve’s cunt. Curled them slightly. Eve cried out. She traced one hand down Villanelle’s smooth flanks; a bolt of raw lust seared right into Eve’s core as she mirrored Villanelle’s stroking fingers. Nuzzling into Villanelle’s hair, panting with her, whispering encouragement urgently on the edge of Villanelle’s fingers, Eve couldn’t stop looking at the way their hands moved in synchrony. At how Villanelle had bared herself to Eve’s eyes and mouth and wandering hands and rapt attention. 

Eve moaned into Villanelle’s mouth. Half delirious, shuddering from the exquisite pressure on her pulsating clit, nipping along Villanelle’s jaw, the metallic taste of blood on skin jolted Eve into another state of mind. She found the meaning of death in the sensitive hollow of Villanelle’s throat; in the way Villanelle’s eyes gleamed as she kissed Eve back feverishly; on her hypersensitive nerves as they screamed at every inch of contact; at the carefree way she cupped Villanelle’s breasts and kneaded them roughly; in the lost, greedy, throaty moan Villanelle unleashed when Eve’s fingers worked harder and deeper; in the escalating heat taking over Eve’s body, the way her heart beat and beat and beat ferociously, and the energy flowing through her veins and through her mouth and transferring into Villanelle. 

Reality reasserted itself to the sensation of Villanelle arching her body calculatingly against Eve’s. She stroked Eve gently, mouthed her neck as she twisted one hand into Eve’s long curly hair. Eve whined. Whimpered. Stretched herself out fully on the sofa, taking more of Villanelle with her. The angle of her hips readjusted, and then Villanelle rocked her hips against Eve’s glistening heat. 

Every inch of her body ignited at Villanelle’s touch. She gave a shuddering sigh that seemed to send shivers down Villanelle’s neck. Her own pace got away from her the moment Eve’s hips bucked, and now Villanelle’s movements were fast and hungry and demanding and relentless. There was no control or dignity or thoughtfulness to the way Villanelle moaned and dragged her own throbbing slickness over Eve’s, over and over until Eve could no longer contain the crescendo of fulfillment within her fragile flesh.

For one fleeting second, Eve thought that she would die from this, that her racing heart would simply give out. And she was _fine_ with it, she was ravenous and aching and completely surrendering. Villanelle kept her eyes open as she rampaged through her own lust, her hands so strong on Eve’s forearms that there would probably be bruises for quite a while after. 

But in this suspended moment, with death just a room over, Eve had never been so primal and _aware_ of her own body. Along with the body of the woman whose breath sang in Eve’s throat; whose scent curled into the deepest parts of her fondest memories; whose eyes held nothing but welcome; whose blood mixed and streamed with Eve’s own; and who now held her protectively through the aftermath, promising a future of forevers. 

Their breathing was harsh and loud in the silence. As soon as Eve could trust her legs again, she got off the sofa and padded to the kitchen. She slipped on the bloody plastic sheets, grabbing the edge of the table to steady herself. The body was still there, of course. It was in exactly the same position it had been, surrounded by ponds of blood. Nothing had really changed _out there_ , but Eve felt it roiling _here_. 

Villanelle passed her to get a meat cleaver from one of the drawers. Eve helped her haul the body onto the table. Avoided Villanelle’s gaze while they stripped all its clothes off, avoided her searching hazel eyes until she couldn’t anymore. 

“You don’t have to watch,” said Villanelle. 

“I want to,” Eve answered. 

“You sure you don’t want to take a shower or something?”

“Yeah. I want to watch.”

Villanelle brought the cleaver down onto the body’s right wrist. Heavy crunch. Metal on bone. Splatter. Thick slice. Separated stray skin and strings of blood and severed fingers. Another glint of metal, and then a rift at the shoulder; entirely removed from the torso, tossed onto the floor. Waterfalls of blood hurtling off the edge of the table. More chunks and hunks of flesh, a few stuffed into the shiny meat grinder. 

Villanelle, naked and bathed in more blood with each methodical fall of the cleaver. Eve, shaking and dizzy and feeling like an invisible hand crushed her throat. 

“Uhh. You know what? I think I’ll go take that shower after all.”

Villanelle flashed a smile. “I’ll manage. Somehow.”

“You sure? I mean, you still have to actually make the shepherd’s pie and then package it so that it gets shipped to Carolyn’s place.”

Villanelle’s husky laugh made Eve grin.

“Yes, Eve. I am sure. Go wash yourself. I will finish everything and then burn these plastic sheets when I’m done.”

Eve wasted no time in stepping gratefully into the shower. The hot water was soothing, relaxing. It kept the tremors at bay. It unwound the nervousness that had crept up along her spine. Cleansed any lingering doubts or fears. Swept her along a current of newfound hopes and possibilities and all the uninterrupted tomorrows she would get to experience with Villanelle.

Eve looked at her bare hands. Spotless. Capable of savage violence and love in equal measure. Droplets clinging to the backs of her hands, dripping from her fingers, cooling her reinvigorated skin. Her hands were steady. 

With a long sigh, Eve washed her old life and self away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written in close collaboration with KillingEveKindofLove, the brilliant author of the amazing fic The First Taste of Sin! 
> 
> Thanks to their steadfast encouragement and support, I was able to write what I think is one of my best chapters. Honestly, I wasn’t sure at all if I would be able to actually write this chapter, so to have it come out exactly the way I envisioned makes me so glad. 
> 
> KEKOL was kind enough to really work through the process of developing my initial ideas into something far greater than what I originally had in mind; in addition to offering their own ideas, we came up with a lot of interesting nuances together. 
> 
> I was only able to succeed thanks to KEKOL’s invaluable insight, suggestions, editing, and goodwill. Thank you for coaching me out of my comfort zone, for your wonderful writer’s spirit, and for being here for me.
> 
> As this tale of murder and mayhem steadily draws to a close, I hope the reading experience has been an enjoyable one! Eve and Villanelle have certain people left on their hitlist and I’m very much looking forward to writing their targets’ untimely demise. Reader engagement is the greatest highlight of this journey for me. I truly appreciate you reading and taking the time to comment. Thank you for your interest, the best is yet to come!


	17. Blood Of The Covenant

The SUV purred along New Haven’s rugged coast. Piers and lighthouses poked up from the rocky, sandy shores. Kayaks consorted with canoes flitting along tributaries, while sailboats decorated the crystal clear waves. Small fishing villages and hamlets passed by; the gently curving road lulled Eve, Konstantin, and Villanelle into tranquility. 

Villanelle rolled down her window to get a whiff of salty air. She felt the tires ripple over the steel drawbridges that crossed the inlets and marshlands. In the backseat, Konstantin snored and did not stir as Eve pulled the SUV through a turn that made the atropine kit and the snakeskin pistol box bump into his belly. Villanelle smiled at the sights he was missing. The massive copper beeches colliding beautifully with the blue sky and shimmering horizon; the foliage already faintly tinted with summer’s unhurried departure; the call of seagulls as they flapped on the breeze; the way Eve couldn’t keep a small, soft smile off her face as they coasted down her memory lane. 

Connecticut had been Villanelle’s suggestion. She could think of no better place for them to get lost after murdering Niko than the sprawling fifty states of America. Eve had avoided bringing up this particular state (which was why Villanelle ruthlessly insisted on it) until Konstantin agreed with Villanelle and pointed out the advantageous logic of starting their hunt for a Keeper from a place that Eve was intimately familiar with. 

Passing through New York state acquainted Villanelle with the American attitude of grandiosity and malice. She decided that she quite liked it, all the blindness and wastefulness, the callous way ugly people were strewn along the dirty streets; the rude drivers and the pollution-choked avenues; the intimidating height of the buildings and the cool, blind way beings passed one another with a flicker of concern for one another’s suffering; it was something Villanelle would have done herself and it warmed her bones to recognize it. 

But Eve was nothing like this New York state, Villanelle thought. She was definitely like Connecticut, with its ambling pace and shining charm. A state of suspended calm before the storm. Villanelle nudged Eve with her elbow. 

“Howdy, Comrade.”

Eve’s smile broadened. “Hi.”

“How much longer?”

“Not too long. We’re going to be passing through the city outskirts soon.”

As they came upon New Haven, they passed bait-and-tackle shops, and farm stands selling strawberries and squash. Cyclists waved at them as they zipped by. Villanelle perked at the cemeteries haloed in the sun’s glow; grilled cheese trucks blared fusions of surf rock and hip hop, which made Villanelle roll up her window haughtily. 

Ice cream stands and pizza places lined the quaint streets. Book barns, coffee shops, and live music lingered in the shadows of trees surrounded by beds of flowers. Red-bricked facades. Cozy wooden benches. Gravel trails winding into a vibrant park. Fancy lamp posts with hanging floral baskets. Bustling locals. The smell of spices and smoke. Faded but elegant 17th-century homes, museums and art galleries aplenty.

Villanelle tried to locate and classify the feelings brewing within her chest. She excavated it to find feelings that Eve would probably call _comfort_ and _contentment._

The SUV passed several grocery stores, apartment buildings, and boutiques. Villanelle craned her head to get a better look at a bridal dress display, then lurched to face the front again when Eve turned sharply onto a side street. She stopped in front of a bright red shack aptly named Louis Lunches. Konstantin was probably smelling the grill, for he grumbled awake.

“Where are we?”

“America’s first hamburger joint,” Eve responded. “They were invented here. Apparently.” 

“Really? I want one!”

“We’re all getting one. My treat.”

Konstantin yawned. “I will stay here to...guard.”

Rolling her eyes, Villanelle got out of the SUV and barreled into the restaurant. Wooden booths that looked like they had been sloshed by beer and polished by grease thousands of times over were pushed up against the brick walls. Cast-iron grills sizzled behind an oak wooden counter. Fresh slices of tomato, cheddar cheese, and onion rested on their cutting boards. A few eaters were hunched over their paper plates, gathering every stray crumb with sheer delight. 

Eve went up to the counter. She belted out her order: 

“Give me three cheese works, a salad, and a birch!”

The cook echoed it back to her and promptly began to broil the burgers.

“What did you just order?”

Eve grinned. “Three hamburgers with cheese, tomato and onion, cooked medium rare on toast, an order of potato salad, and a birch beer.”

“Okay. American English is weird.”

The cook eyed Villanelle suspiciously when her hand brushed against Eve’s and lingered there. She glared right back at him with such ferocity that he turned back to the cutting boards behind him. The minutes dragged on and on. Villanelle got an idea. 

She looped around the counter until she was closer to the cook. Then she leaned forward on her elbows and whispered conspiratorially:

“She is not just my lover, you know.”

The cook did not look at Villanelle. She raised her voice, enveloped in an affable Southern Belle accent, so that it carried loudly over to Eve. 

“I know you think that she is old enough to be my mother. But that is because...she _is_ my mother!”

Eve started to splutter an explanation. The cook looked between her and Villanelle, disbelief etched onto his paling face. 

“I am adopted,” Villanelle clarified. “What, you have a problem with adopted children?”

“You’re a maniac,” hissed Eve as soon as she approached Villanelle. She steered them away from the counter.

“Am I in trouble _mommy_?” 

“Oh my god, yes!”

“Then you should spank me when we get home!”

The strong smell of burned burgers charred the air. Villanelle pouted over her shoulder just before they left the establishment, slamming the door behind them. 

“Where is my burger?” demanded Konstantin as Eve threw herself into the driver’s seat. 

“Change of plans. We’re going to Sally’s Pizza.”

Inside the pizzeria, Eve swept her hair up to keep it away from her bites of food. She had a thoughtful, distant look in her eyes while she chewed. Konstantin finished his slice first and stole bits of pepperoni when he thought that Villanelle wasn’t looking; she much preferred looking at Eve than his stupid face anyway. 

“So,” she said, “any ideas where we could find a Keeper?”

Konstantin dusted his beard. “Your city is a cute place. Truly! But it seems…”

He shot Villanelle a helpless look and grasped for a Russian word instead of the English one. 

“Boring,” offered Villanelle. 

“Yeah, I can see why you’d think that. I felt the same way studying here.”

“What did you study?” asked Konstantin.

“Criminal psych at Yale.” Eve’s eyes sparkled. “Actually, that’s a fantastic place to start looking.”

“Then we can go to campus tomorrow, after we’ve rested,” Konstantin grunted. 

Roses poked their heads through white picket fences while lush oaks and towering elms grew quietly on manicured suburban lawns. Villanelle expected Eve to pull up to one of those houses. Instead, she drove way out of the city limits. The rolling fields, verdant thickets, wide rivers, and wooden fences of Connecticut’s countryside spread out on both sides of the black asphalt road. 

Old farms and their rustic farm houses looked idyllic enough to belong on a postcard, like the kind that Konstantin would supply to Villanelle before an assignment. There was one such farmhouse at the end of a dirt road and Eve finally parked the SUV in its driveway. The house was two stories tall, with black shingles, cream coloured boards and planks, a relaxing porch complete with a wicker settee, and a hand carved arch above the door. 

The large living room welcomed them with a wood burning fireplace and natural light flooding the room through the tall windows and French doors on three sides. Wood picture frames, tables, and floors complemented accents of beige and plush throw rugs. Villanelle noticed a film of dust covering the dining area and the kitchen’s honed granite and marble countertops, a porcelain farm sink and various appliances. The mud room with its travertine floor and laundry area was suffocatingly tidy, although the dust coated everything there too. 

Konstantin sneezed as he dragged the suitcases and tote bag up the wainscoted staircase that led to the master bedroom and guest rooms. Eve shooed him down the hallway, bustling over sleeping arrangements and doing her best to keep the emotional strain out of her voice. Villanelle smiled to herself wistfully. 

She stayed downstairs to take in the large backyard deck, ideal for entertainment. The yard was punctuated by artsy stone walls and gardens, with fairy lights trailing around the wooden furniture. Villanelle felt a pang of warmth at all the little details: lots of built-in cabinets and shelves, visibly hand-hewn beams, and many doors connecting sumptuously decorated spaces. 

Silently, Villanelle went upstairs and drifted from room to room. A door was slightly ajar. She opened it to find herself in a cozy bedroom. The bed had a sky-blue duvet sprinkled with faded star-shaped sequins. Pictures of sailboats hung above the wooden headboard, along with a pair of straw hats. A nightstand with three drawers was beside the bed. Villanelle opened one of them; it was empty, of course it was. She blushed with embarrassment at herself.

Then Villanelle turned slowly to see Eve leaning against the doorframe. 

“Looking for me?” she asked softly. 

“This was your room,” said Villanelle.

“Yes.” Eve gestured to the blank wall adjacent to the window. “I used to have band posters plastered all over this spot.”

“You liked loud music?”

“Definitely. I turned it up so loud I could never hear my father yelling at me.”

“That is good.”

Villanelle carefully sat down on the edge of the bed. Eve joined her. 

“Are you going to spank me now?”

Eve laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“Fine.”

“But I was thinking about what you said.”

“Oh no. Don’t get all profound on me. I was only joking!”

“You called me mommy.” Eve’s brow furrowed. “I hope you know-I mean, I just want to be clear with you-I’m _not_ your mother.” 

“I know, Eve.”

“Do you miss your mother?”

Villanelle stared at the floor. “She died when I was very young. I don’t have anyone to miss.”

“Okay.”

“And your father? What about him?”

“What _about_ him,” muttered Eve.

“You do not miss him?”

“I went back to London for his funeral, didn’t I?”

“Blood is thicker than water. Guilt is thickest of all.”

“That’s not right.” Eve sighed. “Everyone always misquotes that.”

“What?”

“The real quote is ‘the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.’ This doesn’t mean putting up with shit from family just because you’re related. It actually means that blood shed in battle bonds more strongly than simple genetics. And with the way the human psyche works, it’s true.”

“Well, we’ve shed a lot of blood. Our bond must be extra strong.”

Eve smiled fondly. “Yes.”

* * *

Kenny fumbled with the key to Carolyn’s townhouse, dropping it right on top of a cardboard package set neatly on the threshold. Frowning, he snatched it up and inspected its exterior. The logo of one of London’s most prominent catering companies was emblazoned on it. He carried it inside with a shrug.

Just as soon as Kenny had dropped his travel bags in the front hallway, put the box in the kitchen, and prepared to go shower, the sound of barking boomed from the living room. The scritch-scratching of claws on the hardwood floor followed moments after. A large dog lumbered into view; its black, brown, and white fur rippled with every muscular and agile bound towards Kenny. 

He held himself against the staircase railing, glanced at the umbrella propped beside the coat hanger near the front door. It was too far to reach; the tough-looking dog swiftly bared down on him. Kenny saw the keen, penetrating gaze in its brown eyes, braced himself for tearing teeth and claws. 

Then the dog skidded to a stop. Its growls faded and its tail wagged in a lively manner. Kenny crouched. He hesitantly offered his hand for the dog to sniff; its fuzzy pink tongue darted out to lick his fingers sloppily. Soon enough it flopped onto its back, tongue lolling, and barked exuberantly as Kenny pet its stomach. 

He reached for the collar, which named the dog Spartan. 

“Wanna have a treat?”

Kenny went into the kitchen with Spartan panting at his heels. There were no dog food bowls in the kitchen, no toys, not even any stray grooming equipment. Spartan looked too well taken care of to be a stray, so Carolyn must have picked him up recently. Resentment twisted through Kenny; it was too much to hope for that Carolyn had gotten the dog as a gift to celebrate Kenny’s progress with The Twelve. 

London’s gloomy temperament and general chill was a sharp contrast to the weather Kenny had experienced at The Twelve’s headquarters. He needed a parka, sure, and it didn’t hurt to have other water resistant clothing either; but the air was fresher, cleaner, and much more invigorating than London’s pollution tainted breeze. 

The food, however, was another matter. Kenny lifted the lid of the cardboard box to reveal Shepherd’s pie. His mouth watered at the sight; Spartan gazed longingly at the microwave while Kenny heated up a plate piled high. He let the dog sniff a scoop of pie from Kenny’s outstretched palm. Spartan slurped it, whined, and trotted off into the living room. 

Kenny dug in with one hand while he scrolled his laptop with the other. He reread the email from Carolyn that had recalled him to London. It was curt as usual, crammed with her stuffy protocol and haughty manner. The bitter taste it left in his mouth was quickly buried under mouthfuls of Shepherd’s pie, seasoned to perfection. Kenny chewed thoughtfully as he brought up the USB sequence; it still pulsed and shimmered, entangled itself in numbers and lines, ensnared in locations and dates and times that cut with confusion like barbed wire. 

The Twelve needed Kenny’s division of Keepers, a rag-tag collective of computer scientists, data analysts, cybersecurity specialists, and software developers whom he’d called The Silver Vanguard. Bloodshot eyes, sleepless nights, and consistent doses of caffeine kept them all going, but Kenny ran on an entirely different kind of circuitry. 

He was dazzled by the patterns that flashed across his screen; fascinated by the whirring of machines as they carried out his commands; immersed elbow deep in the entrails of wires and beeping coordinates, keenly mapping out The Twelve’s next move. Kenny was so deeply concentrated on the sequence that he jumped when Spartan suddenly barked again and rocketed down the front hallway. 

Another plate with its accompanying silverware was already set on the table by the time that Carolyn floated into the room. 

“Kenny. You’re here early.”

“And why am I here, exactly?”

“Yes, I had a very nice flight, thank you for asking. How was your flight?”

“Long.” Kenny shut his laptop. He forked more pie into his mouth. Spartan leapt onto one of the kitchen chairs.

“Don’t be beastly! Down!”

Spartan gazed at Carolyn with watery eyes.

“He’s alright,” Kenny said, grinning. 

“He’s supposed to be _intimidating_.” Carolyn sighed and sank down onto a chair across from Kenny. “I’ve been fired. I wanted to tell you that in person.”

Kenny swallowed hard. “Why?”

“Why did I want to tell you in person or why was I fired?”

“Um, both I s’pose.”

“Konstantin’s family is missing. So are The Ghost’s children. I’ve compromised assets critical to MI6 and endangered the entire operation due to circumstances beyond my control. That’s what Helen told me, anyway.”

In a flash, Kenny re-opened his laptop and typed names into Peel’s invasive search engine. He scowled. 

“It says that Konstantin’s wife and daughter are still in London.”

“Impossible. I’ve looked everywhere for them.” Carolyn grabbed the knife. “Unless…”

“What?”

“There are tunnels beneath London. Labyrinths of tunnels.”

“Below the tube?”

“Below that, even. If Konstantin hid his family there, they wouldn’t survive for long.”

Kenny glanced at the status beside each name. “They’re still viable targets. Still alive.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Tech doesn’t lie, mum.”

“Then we’re bound to find them if they’re here. What about The Ghost?”

“On the move. I can’t pinpoint her at this point, but my guess is that she might be across the pond by now.”

“Has she uploaded the USB from Florence?”

Kenny shook his head. “I told you, it’s better to wait until she’s got the last three so we can sync them with the sequence simultaneously. Faster that way.”

“Ah. So much technology, so little choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

The corner of Carolyn’s mouth quirked up. “Indeed. Thank you, Kenny.”

“No problem. Why couldn’t you tell me all this over the phone?” 

“Well, I wanted us to go back to The Twelve together. Especially now that I can devote all my time and energy there instead of splitting it with MI6 here. I also think it’s time you and I paid Amber Peel a visit too, yes?”

Carolyn heaped Shepard’s pie onto her plate. She forked a rather large spoonful into her mouth. 

“Delicious,” she said.

* * *

Yale University was the centerpiece of New Haven. History oozed from its vast campus, from stately old brick facades to the severity of the mid-century Gothic structures. The cobblestoned streets that ran parallel to the lecture halls and student residences looked like they were transplanted directly from England. Tree-lined sidewalks curved toward Yale’s art galleries, laboratories, and lecture halls, which currently poured forth streams of students making their way across campus. 

High above the slanting roofs, the violet and orange streaked sky was being choked by ominous clouds. Villanelle wrapped her plaid shirt more tightly around herself. She hurried to catch up with Eve, whose grey houndstooth blazer snapped behind her in the sharp gust of wind that gathered as they were passing beneath an intricately carved arch. 

Eve’s walk was confident and purposeful; Villanelle admired her assured strides, the way she moved with muscular poise. Her sense of direction kept Villanelle leashed; many of the buildings looked the same with their stained glass windows and neat stone architecture. The only reason that she recognized the Department of Psychology was because the building’s facade was covered with ivy and it had imposing turrets.

Down the long brightly lit hallways, footsteps echoing on the polished marble floor, past classrooms with varnished wooden doors, Eve led Villanelle into an empty computer lab. Sleek and gleaming, the machines stood at the ready. The minimalist styling of the desks, chairs, and decorations that took up the majority of the room were at odds with the ancient beams, shelves weighted by books, and strong pillars that supported the vaunted ceiling. 

Villanelle looked over Eve’s shoulder as she inserted a silver USB into the computer’s drive. 

“This one is blank,” she explained, “except for the corrupted data I’ve put into it. And I’ve got some more corrupting to do.”

“You are going to be affecting the sequence?”

“That’s the plan.”

Villanelle tilted her head. “When you upload this for Carolyn, won’t she notice?”

“Eventually, yeah. But not right away, because the corruption mimics the real sequence closely enough.”

“Okay. Upload the real USBs first.”

“Why?”

“Because she will not be expecting a problem near the end, but she may be looking for one at the very beginning. And the corruption will be worse.”

Eve went back to work with a pleased twinkle in her eye. Before the boulder of boredom could completely crush her chest, Villanelle wandered away from the computer lab. She explored the Department of Psychology’s regal hallways, pausing to creak open classroom doors, run her hands along the cold, seamless stone walls, and to gaze up at the frescoes painted overhead. 

A few students popped out of the department library; Villanelle quietly slipped in after them. Hanging lanterns, long wooden benches, manuscripts and books encased in a glass pillar that dominated the middle of the spacious room; the smell of mustiness and bygone ages creased between yellowed pages, soft floor lights dousing comfy leather sofas and hunched over scholars with a hushed halo. 

Villanelle was flipping through a thick, heavy, hard cover book that she’d found resting on one of the tables when a bespectacled old man approached her.

“Are you finding everything you need, miss?”

She noticed his silver arrow cuff links catching the light. 

“Um, no. Where is the philosophy section?”

“This is the psychology library.”

“Oh! How silly of me.” Villanelle stood up and flashed him a dazzling smile. “Can you show me where the main library is?”

With the book tucked neatly underneath her arm, Villanelle followed the librarian past fountains and groves of trees, pathways that weaved between residences, dining halls, and other department buildings that all looked alike. Drizzling rain wet Villanelle’s hands by the time they reached the main library. The librarian left her in the foyer, half-turned to make his way back outside and hurry through the steadily increasing rain.

But Villanelle brought the heavy hardcover book down on his head. He crumpled to the ground. She slammed the book onto his head again. Then again. And yet again, until his glasses cracked against the blood-stained marble floor and his shoulders slumped. Villanelle turned his body over, snatched the silver USB from a compartment in his Yale-branded wallet, and dragged his body back outside. She dumped it in the back of the library, where neatly trimmed bushes rustled with the weight of the corpse. The rain had awakened the damp smell of the dark earth, along with the worms squirming just below its surface. 

Thunder rolled in the distance. The wind picked up. Rain fell hard enough to soak Villanelle’s hair. She rushed from building to building, ducking under arches and thoroughfares. She splashed through puddles and muddied her black converse shoes in an effort to get to one of the more important looking buildings; she was sure that it was the Department of Psychology until she actually squeaked inside to find that the classroom layout was completely different. 

Flushed with embarrassment, Villanelle kept hurrying across campus. The next building she entered didn’t even have a computer lab. She leaned against a pillar, head pounding. Her mind swirled. The hallways blurred together, the wooden doors became indistinguishable from one another, and Villanelle kept taking wrong turns. She fought a coughing attack; doubled over and heaving, dreading the wet, hacking noises that echoed around her cacophonously. 

Her lungs ached in the aftermath. The rain felt cool on her burning skin while she trudged onwards. Then waves of relief flooded her chest at the sight of Eve scurrying toward her through the rain, with windswept hair and a mood as stormy as the grey skies. They went back to Eve’s house soaked to the bone. The tea that Konstantin brewed for them while they took a hot shower seemed to seep into Villanelle’s bones. 

She wrapped herself in a pink bathrobe. Eve donned cozy pyjamas and curled up in the chair by the window. Heavy rain dashed against the glass. Drops raced and slid down inevitably to the sill. Occasional flashes of lightning threw Eve’s face into harsh light, revealing deeply etched lines of worry. Wordlessly, Villanelle got up to gently wrap her arms around Eve and placed a tender kiss on the top of her head.

“What are you thinking about?” Villanelle asked.

“I don’t like storms.” Thunder crashed. “I _really_ don’t like storms.”

“Why not?”

“They’re uncontrollable and messy and loud and destructive.”

“So...they are like me.”

Eve snorted into her tea mug. “But I like _you_.”

“I’m relieved.” 

Villanelle placed herself between Eve and the window. She perched on the edge of the sill so that Eve had to focus on her completely. It was a warm, giddy feeling.

“How come you studied women in crime?”

“Because they’re fascinating. You’re living proof.”

“That is nice. But I hope I am more than just an experiment for you, Eve.”

“Of course you are!”

“Does it feel different,” asked Villanelle, softly, “now that you have put theory into practice?”

Eve prolonged her tea sipping. Then she answered just as softly:

“It feels better.” Another flash of lightning briefly bathed Eve’s face in the same colour as a pale winter sun. “You ever think about creating life?” 

“How do you mean?”

“It’s just that...we spend so much time killing. Destroying life. So I wondered if-if you ever wanted to create it. Y’know, to be a mother.”

Villanelle shook her head. “I do not want any children.”

“Okay.”

Eve looked up at her expectantly; Villanelle realized that she was probably meant to ask something in return and shrugged.

“And you, Eve?”

The seriousness of her answer was underscored by the way she solemnly set the tea mug down beside the chair. Stray strands of hair slipped loose from her ponytail when she leaned forward; it pleased Villanelle to think that Eve was getting closer because she was simply giving in to Villanelle’s magnetism. 

“I thought about it. But then I couldn’t tell if I wanted kids because _I_ actually wanted to have them, or because that was the social and cultural expectation. Turns out I just liked the idea itself more than I wanted to make it happen. But...I also found out in my early twenties that I couldn’t have kids.”

“Why?”

“Ever heard of PCOS?”

“No.”

“It stands for poly cystic ovary syndrome. It’s a hormone disorder. My mom didn’t believe it was serious enough, because as the only child of immigrant parents I was just expected to have kids no matter what.”

“What about your father?”

Eve’s eyes turned the colour of the storm clouds. “That was what they had their last big fight about, before the divorce: my failure to have kids. My father just...left. Walked out during a storm and didn’t come back. As soon as my mom found out he’d moved here to New Haven, she got a divorce.”

Villanelle reached out to cup Eve’s chin. “And then you followed him?”

“I always wanted to study at Yale. He agreed to pay portions of my tuition, so I transferred from the University of London and finished my degree here. It was practical.”

“So why did you hate your father?”

“Because nothing I ever did was good enough for him. Because I wasn’t woman enough, since I’d never have kids. To hear him tell it, he would have been better off raising a boy, for all I was worth. Because all I had going for me was figuring out killer women and that’s all I’d ever be good for-all I’d ever amount to.”

Villanelle eased Eve out of the chair. She shuddered against Villanelle’s chest, wet her shoulder with tears as surely as the rain fell outside. Through the thunder and lightning, through the sobs and half-choked words, Villanelle soothingly rubbed Eve’s back and held her close. Glorying in the scent of her, the feel of her. 

“It’s okay, Kill Commander. You are good for many things. And you are good for me,” she whispered into Eve’s ear. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I love you for all that you are and ever will be.”


	18. Eden

It was amusing to watch Amber Peel squirm and burrow into her leather chair. Carolyn towered over the long, elegant wooden desk strewn with papers, blueprints, and fashion magazines. Amber’s white and silver pinstripe suit stood out against the sandstone-panelled wall behind her. The entire office was a monolith of warm wood, leather, oak flooring, and soft carpets that gave it a simultaneously strict yet inviting feel.

A glass door, integrated into a transparent glass wall, served as the main office entrance. From her position, Amber could maintain visual contact with the rest of the space. A small pantry, unobtrusively tucked into the corner, with neat white cabinets, was used to brew the coffee that Carolyn now neglected. Bursts of lush green from the various plants scattered here and there were the only elements of uplifting colour for the office palette; if it wasn’t for the window blinds being slotted open, Carolyn was certain that she wouldn’t have seen more than murky smudges in front of her. 

Feeling the full force of Carolyn’s piercing, relentless gaze, Amber decided to focus on her fountain pen instead.

“I’ve been making my company work as fast as I can, Carolyn.”

“That’s not good enough, I’m afraid. My termination of employment with MI6 has made it necessary to speed up production for the new fleet of drones.”

“Your specifications are complex and layered. We’re not making toys here, it takes time!”

“How much more time?”

“At least another month.”

“No! I need them by the end of this week.”

Amber’s eyes flicked up to Carolyn’s, like the frightened glance of a field mouse just about to dart from its cover. 

“If I release them to you this early, they won’t have the proper armour.”

“I can live with that. As long as they have all the other features I requested.”

“Like the biometrics?”

Carolyn inclined her head. “I believe Kenny would be able to understand that drabble better than me.”

She summoned him from the waiting room. He entered with his laptop in hand, looking sulky, concerned, and irritated. 

“Amber says that while the new drones won’t have their bullet proof shielding, they should have all the rest of the technological wizardry you recommended. Like the biometrics, as I understand.”

“How have you programmed them?” he asked Amber.

“This drone fleet would still respond to a central controller, but activation of it would be solely authorized by Carolyn. Like a personal vanguard, if you will.” Amber crossed one leg at her other knee and focused on Kenny rather than Carolyn. “The controller would only recognize Carolyn’s biometrics. Eye scanner, voice activation, fingerprints. Any of these three separately or a combination of all of them will do the trick.”

“And my mum would be able to issue commands to the drones, then?”

“Well, not exactly. The drones run on preprogrammed scripts, AI that functions on the basis of what my brother designed. The drones will only attack the targets that you specify, of course, which reduces collateral damage. And you can also input the target’s biometrics, we’re still working out that advanced setting...But once the target is eliminated, the drones will return to their standing orders.”

“Which are?”

“Kill anything that moves.”

“So I am essentially reduced to a human on and off switch for them, is that it?” snapped Carolyn. 

“If you just gave my company more time to perfect the programming, more time to align the technology with its hardware-”

“Yeah mum, I think we should wait,” Kenny insisted.

“We’ve waited long enough! I need these drones now.”

“But why?”

It was Carolyn who averted her eyes from both Kenny and Amber now.

“I need to feel safe.”

“Then I will ship these drones out by the end of the week,” said Amber coldly. “But I will be charging you extra for the labour costs.”

Carolyn nodded brusquely. She stormed out of the office with Kenny following closely behind her. He tried to keep the worry out of his voice as they chatted in the car, but she heard it crawling underneath his words. It was bothersome to listen to his whining and cautioning; she’d almost completely drowned him out by the time they returned to her home. He didn’t even take the hint when she began packing their travel bags, or when Spartan trotted along at his heels begging for attention. 

Sounds of Kenny typing and muttering under his breath drifted from the den. Then he called out:

“I found them!”

The clothes that Carolyn was folding, then stuffing unceremoniously into her suitcase, were promptly discarded. She donned her glasses to peer over Kenny’s shoulder. The light from his laptop washed over the lenses to give them an opaque sheen. 

“This is CCTV footage from about two weeks ago at Pennington station,” Kenny explained. 

He zoomed in. Carolyn raised an eyebrow. A pixelated but unmistakable Villanelle was boarding the train with Irina and Konstantin’s wife. Kenny alternated between various camera angles that followed the train’s journey from the bustling platform to a quiet residential street. Carolyn noted the number of the house Villanelle entered. 

“Who lives there?” she asked.

“Eve’s mum,” muttered Kenny. 

“Oh my…”

“She’s not a tech fan. She doesn’t have cable. Doesn’t have any smart home systems. Not even an alarm system. Still has a landline, though.”

Kenny fast-forwarded the camera footage. Villanelle appeared back at Pennington station, alone. But it was her destination that made Carolyn sweep her glasses off furiously. Twenty minutes later, she was pacing up and down the lobby of The Twelve’s hotel in Pennington. Kenny’s announcement that the cameras had been wiped felt like a fencing blade slashing at her chest. 

She recalled the report that Eve had submitted for her ill-fated SWAT raid; concentrating on it dulled the boiling rage steadily rising to the surface. Eve’s sterile recounting of events clashed with the utter disappointment of her not being able to apprehend Villanelle. These were tiresome, unnecessary details that Carolyn dismissed in favour of remembering that the exact room Villanelle had been in was 201. Before Kenny could look up from the concierge desk, Carolyn threw herself into the garish elevator that whisked her up to the second floor.

Room 201 looked like a disaster area when she managed to pry the door open. Bedsheets, desk drawers, and various hotel items were in complete disarray. The door adjacent to the entrance caught Carolyn’s eye because it was carelessly left ajar; she swiftly proceeded into the tunnels, her footsteps striking authoritatively on the concrete floor. 

Her heart plummeted when she came upon the training area. It smelled foul. The bodies of The Ghost’s children were arranged side by side in repose, their little heads surrounded by a dried lake of blood. Carolyn crouched to observe that they had been shot quite impersonally and efficiently. She did not look at the pale, cold corpses again as she turned to follow the tunnel back to the hotel. 

“Go back home and finish packing,” she snapped to Kenny when they reunited in the lobby. 

The hotel door slammed over Kenny’s protestations. Thankfully, he didn’t have to see Carolyn’s composure completely desert her in the tinted-window comfort of the car. She sat still until her breathing evened out, her head stopped pounding, and she could bear to make a few phone calls with a steady voice. It didn’t take the Cleaners long to answer her summons; a group of five were promptly gathered at her doorstep by the time she pulled into the driveway. 

Stern looking men and women posed as maids and vaccumers. Their weapons were hidden in duffel bags, tucked away in their bulky uniforms, or kept out of sight in buckets. They all piled in the van with its phoney decals; Carolyn sat in silence with rage pumping through her veins as they re-checked their ammunition, the sharpness of their knives, and fidgeted with their disguises. 

She exited the van coolly. They marched behind her down the empty, sun washed street. Birds chirped from their nests in the trees. Not a single car stirred. The peace of the moment dissipated with Carolyn’s heavy knock upon the door.

Irina opened it. Her youthful face slipped from curiosity to puzzlement to primal fear the longer that Carolyn stood at the doorstep offering Irina a chilling smile. 

“Hello. Did you call for house cleaning services?”

* * *

The neon sign spelled out Eden. 

Eve stood beneath its poisonous green glow, with Villanelle just off to the side. She was speaking French to a bouncer hovering in between them and the club’s ornate entrance; her cadence flowed like a champagne river, her words dipped in playful and sultry tones. His pronunciation sounded harsh, whiny, and nasally in contrast, nothing like the eloquent and elegant sounds Villanelle made. 

“They really do speak French strangely in Montreal,” she murmured into Eve’s ear as they went inside. 

“What did you tell him?”

“Only the truth: that I am the world's deadliest assassin and that I would castrate him, along with every male member of his entire family, if he did not let us come in first.”

“Villanelle!”

She laughed, freely and carelessly. “Relax, Eve! We are out to celebrate having all of the USBs. Finally! Do you think Konstantin is grouchy that he had to stay at the hotel to guard them?”

“Maybe.” Eve grinned. “I’d be grouchier if I had to stand in line all night just to get in here.”

Club Eden was a massive structure that stood out in Montreal’s lively club district thanks to its striking green glow. It always had a line-up of people, primarily women, running up the street, all eagerly waiting to cram themselves into the space. True to its name, the club was themed after the Garden of Eden with floral murals on the walls and large artistic trees created with fine wood craftsmanship. 

The heart of the club was a subterranean enchanted forest with a glass enclosed wine cellar and a pumping bass that Eve felt in her chest as she passed by the descending staircase. The main area was modelled after a chalet, with plenty of couches, wood paneling and a fireplace. Long-legged waitresses floated by carrying seafood platters and cocktails. Villanelle followed them, with Eve trailing eagerly in her wake, until they found their reserved table and settled in. 

Soft red lighting came down from the vine covered ceiling. Eve glanced around to notice that the patrons, dancers, and hostesses were all women. A blush crept up Eve’s neck, right to the tips of her ears.

“Okay...this is a lesbian nightclub.”

“You are _so_ observant, Eve.” Villanelle rolled her eyes. “Yes, women loving other women is a thing. A beautiful thing,” she added with a flash of her wicked smile. “And this club is for women like us.”

A laugh shook loose from Eve. “I don’t think these women are anything like us.”

_They certainly don’t look like us._

Eve wore a halter neck cocktail dress that paid homage to the one Villanelle had sent back with Eve’s lost suitcase from Berlin. Except this one had a reversed colour palette: the base was white fabric that shimmered like newly fallen snow with black contrasting stitching and embroidery that coiled like a snake. Its cinched waist and skinny front keyhole slit created movement and dimension that sensually accentuated Eve’s form.

Villanelle also wore a dress. It had a one-shoulder neckline, along with black and scarlet jacquard fabric that set her figure ablaze. The dress embraced her freedom of movement and unrestricted edge with a flawlessly draped front ruffle. 

“I remember the first time I saw you at your house,” Villanelle was saying. “You looked like you stepped out of my dreams.”

“Stop it, you charmer.”

“I am serious! Can you imagine how stunning you looked, wearing the dress and perfume I bought you?  _Smelling_ like _me_?”

Eve tried hiding behind the menu but was forced to put it down when she realized she didn’t understand a word of French. This did not present a barrier for Villanelle, who fired away orders at their waitress. Eve delicately sipped her water in order to keep her mouth occupied while a charged silence passed between her and Villanelle. 

Their appetizers arrived quickly enough. Eve was presented with venison tataki complemented by beets, horseradish and spruce. The thin rounds of venison just slipped down Eve’s throat, leaving behind the sharp, unexpected flavours of horseradish and spruce. Villanelle stabbed at a salad with arugula, grilled peaches, spoonfuls of ricotta, and toasted sweet almonds. The mix was dressed with maple vinaigrette and topped with rose petals. It looked like summer captured in a bowl. 

When the waitress receded, Villanelle captured Eve’s gaze and held it. 

“Why now, Eve?”  
  
“Why what now?”  
  
“Why did you wait for almost your entire life to be with a woman?”

“I just...I never had the opportunity before.”

“There are apps and websites for this sort of thing. You did not have to wait.”  
  
“But I wasn’t allowed before.”

“What do you mean _allowed_?”  
  
“The years passed by in restrictions. My upbringing. Cultural expectations. School. Work. Clinging to safety because that’s all I had. Fuck, I don’t know! Take your pick.”

“Did you always have a thing for women?”  
  
“No, I did not always have a _thing_ for women!”

“Okay, so it is just me then.”

“Actually...yes. You are my first. And my last. My forever and my everything.”

Eve caught the surprise that sliced across Villanelle’s face just before she wiped it away in time for the waitress to bring their main dishes. Villanelle looked to have the fanciest version of fish and chips that Eve had ever seen: a perfectly cooked trout filet with sesame-crusted skin, paired with honey-roasted carrots and thickly sliced frites. The wild mushroom spaghetti that Eve twirled on her fork was tossed with kale, garlic flower, and cherry tomatoes. She mopped up the olive oil left in her bowl with two parmesan dusted breadsticks.

They shared a delightful slice of white chocolate and wild flower cake for dessert, which was then promptly washed down by white wine. Eve swirled the golden liquid in her glass. She looked up again to find Villanelle still gazing at her intently.

“There are plenty of non-psychopathic, serial killer assassin women here.” She gestured around the room. “You can have any of them. Anyone you want.”

“But I don’t want any of them. I want you.”

Villanelle smirked. “So what is it about _me_?”

“It’s...it’s being so in love with you, so perfectly attuned to you that I can feel my breathing, my heartbeats syncing up automatically when we’re laying next to each other,” said Eve. “It is literal physical love...the kind of love that, when you enter the room, something in my soul just settles. Like puzzle pieces clicking, like something I didn't even _know_ was missing is just... _there._ It’s knowing I was whole without you, but somehow I’m just much _more_ because of your presence near mine. To me, that’s euphoria. That’s soul love.”

“To believe in souls, in soulmates, in love, in fate,” Villanelle added, her voice thick with emotion, “because when I’m with you, I _know_ I have a heart and a soul and I _know_ that yours recognizes mine-”

“-that’s the kind of love we have. True love. And to have been without it for so long, to ever even contemplate being without it now...without you...rips me to shreds every fucking day.”

Villanelle reached for Eve’s hand, intertwined their fingers, and locked them together tightly. They lingered at the table for a few more precious moments that seemed to stretch on forever. But forever was a blink of an eye, and Villanelle slowly guided Eve away from the table. She held onto Villanelle’s hand even tighter as they went deeper into the club. Eve lingered at the top of the stairs, where the music was loud enough to shake the floor and make the chandeliers above them tremble. 

“What’s wrong, Eve?”

“It’s just that...I haven’t been in a nightclub since-since-”

“Since I killed Bill,” finished Villanelle. “I know. But things are different now. We can take care of ourselves now.”

Eve shuddered at Villanelle caressing her wedding ring, felt suspended somewhere between excitement and guilt. Villanelle brushed her lips against Eve’s, and Eve moaned at the heat that tender sensation called forth in her. Head spinning, heart racing, hands trembling, Eve let herself be led down the stairs. Green light spilled from the doors ahead. Villanelle shouldered them open and loud music burst out.

Clinging to Villanelle until they could cut through to the middle of the pulsating crowd, catching flashes of her ecstatic face, Eve nuzzled into Villanelle’s neck. She could smell Villanelle’s distinct musk, the floral tones gracing her smooth skin, the rising heat that warmed the tips of Eve’s fingers. She traced those fingers along Villanelle’s silhouette, framed by strobing lights, until she could see Villanelle’s glossy lips part. She wrapped a hand in Eve’s messy curls and tilted her head back to receive Eve’s starving kiss.

There was no way to hear Villanelle’s delicate gasps and throaty moans over the currents of music, but Eve felt her swaying hips; the rhythmic throbbing between her own legs, the electric shock on Villanelle’s skin as Eve tugged the hem of her dress up, up, up, so that the ridge of Villanelle’s soaked silk panties wet the tips of Eve’s fingers. She slid them past the panties, directly into Villanelle’s ready, slick, welcoming heat. 

Eve held her steady as she all but threw herself backwards; the jostling crowd made it difficult for Eve to keep plunging her fingers with any kind of consistency. But she let herself be carried away by the fever-pitch melodies, the blinding lights, the heat of their bodies pressed together, the pounding beats, the way that the colours and smells and sights all smeared themselves on her tongue. 

With Eve thrusting deeper and harder, Villanelle widened her stance. Suddenly, she turned around and crushed their lips together. Eve still tasted the invigorating remnants of wine on Villanelle’s tongue, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. Her hands wandered underneath Villanelle’s dress to cup her breasts. Villanelle mirrored her movements yet infused them with a cruelly teasing edge; she stroked Eve in time to the leaping bass, except it was over the material of her own wet panties. Never touching the insistent heat underneath, never promising anything more than blissful release only on Villanelle’s terms. 

A low growl lodged itself in Eve’s throat. She mouthed the sides of Villanelle’s neck, brushed aside strands of her hair, gripped her forearms tightly in order to push them through the crowd. The revellers at the perimeter parted to let them pass. Eve took Villanelle in the first empty hallway they found, rounding a corner to a quieter, cooler spot. Panting, Eve went down to her knees before Villanelle. She felt the stickiness of the liquor drenched floor, felt the glow of lights hot on the back of her neck.

Consumed by the wild emotions coursing through her veins, Eve impressed herself by managing to slowly kiss along the length of Villanelle’s legs as she dragged the hem of her dress up. A thin trail of arousal dripped down Villanelle’s right leg. Eve eagerly lapped it up with her tongue, sucking at the shining skin and glancing up to see that Villanelle’s head lolled wildly to the side. She thrust her hands into Eve’s hair. Her chest heaved. She was saying something, something lost in the muffled music breaking through the decorated walls. 

Eve slid Villanelle’s panties down and held her hips steady. Then she tasted Villanelle, bruised her lips with the force of pressing them between Villanelle’s thighs. Devoured and devoured and glazed her nose, lips, and chin with Villanelle’s flavour. She dragged her tongue along Villanelle’s glistening, savoury folds; flicked and swirled her tongue on Villanelle’s clit; slipped a finger alongside her tongue, thrust it messily in and out, in and out, in and out, until she could feel Villanelle’s knees buckling. 

Her back arched off the wall as she came. Eve heard her joyous scream, felt it resounding in her chest. All coherent thought was blasted from her mind in favour of indulging images of herself riding Villanelle’s mouth and tongue until she took her own release. Eve steadied Villanelle’s trembling hands, pinned them against the wall behind her. Claimed Villanelle’s bottom lip between her teeth and tugged playfully. Villanelle breathed harshly into the crook of Eve’s shoulder. 

“We’d better go,” rasped Villanelle. She kissed Eve just to taste residues herself. Then said very reluctantly, “The drugs are running out and I-I feel weak.”

“That’s not really the effect I wanted to have on you, but okay.”

They made their way to the underground parking garage. Rows of expensive, powerful, exotic cars gleamed beneath the fluorescent parking lights. Large columns painted green supported the upper floor. A flickering neon light across the lot indicated that the garage exit was two floors below. Cars spiraled down, some of them rudely revving their engines and roaring far past the safe speed limit. 

Eve and Villanelle walked arm and arm, their heeled footsteps echoing throughout the cavernous space. Eve felt like she could fly away with another touch of Villanelle’s hand, like she would spontaneously combust if she didn’t feel Villanelle’s mouth all over her once they were in the car. 

But her blood froze and she brought Villanelle to a standstill. All semblance of triumph was shattered, as if they had suddenly been cast out of paradise.

Because there, between them and their car, stood The Ghost.


	19. Exorcism

The Ghost’s face was haloed by sizzling blue light. Her tied back hair and zipped up jacket gave her silhouette a lean, dangerous edge. She stood completely still with her hands casually stuffed into the jacket pockets, as if she had just been taking a relaxing nighttime stroll and then happened to have the tremendous misfortune of running into people she immensely disliked. 

Gasoline and paint fumes lingered in the air. The garage ceiling loomed oppressively low, cracks in its concrete threatening to seemingly collapse the entire structure. Ventilation shafts rattled. Car tires squeezed, smoked, and skidded. A draft of air coming from the rooftop level whistled down a spiraling turn; one car sped down the rooftop ramp to whip past The Ghost with obnoxious music blasting. 

When the blare of the horn subsided, Eve noticed that her hands were balled into fists. Her pulse beat hard at her jaw, rushing adrenaline and steadily mounting rage through her veins. The throbbing between her legs reminded her with each aching second of what she was being denied. To her left, Villanelle was stripped of the calm, perpetually amused, and hard mask she wore. 

Icy fear leaked from the cracks of her composure; it seemed to reach the back of Eve’s neck to send chills down her spine. Eve noticed that tired sag of Villanelle’s shoulders, the slight curl of her right-hand fingers as if they longed to be wrapped around a gun. The flowing lines of Villanelle’s dress disguised the predatory shift in her posture that Eve _sensed_ even before she caught it in her peripheral vision. 

A howling, unquenchable need for violence stirred in the core of Eve’s chest. The chemistry of her lust for Villanelle, along with the cosmic pull of her love, resonated deeply in Eve’s bones and shone from her eyes and lifted her chin and broadened her stance and gave her the fire she needed to meet The Ghost’s pitiless eyes. 

Her hands darted out of her jacket pockets. One of them held a pistol. 

Eve stumbled behind the closet pillar for cover just as a bullet fried the parking light behind her. Villanelle ducked behind a car to avoid the fire that cracked its windshield. Crunching, she skulked along the car’s husk to whirl behind her own pillar, which was a few meters behind Eve. 

Standing beneath the shattered light, her heels crunching on the littered glass, Eve sucked in a breath. The rate of fire came in bursts that chipped away at the pillar’s concrete. Shards flew through the air, chalky film settling in Eve’s mane and pieces lodging into her curls. From the intervals of bullets (some booming behind Eve to _pang_ against Villanelle’s pillar) Eve thought that Konstantin would have classified The Ghost’s pistol as _semi-automatic._

Another round peppered the walls, the pillar, the car windows and windshields, drumming against metal doors and adding the striking smell of smoke to the thin air. 

Eve waited until she heard the _chk-chk_ of The Ghost reloading. Then she lurched out from behind the pillar and threw herself at The Ghost; she careened off balance and crumpled to the ground. Eve kicked the gun, sharp heels connecting with the metal and sending it skidding away. Another kick landed directly on The Ghost’s chest, followed by another one into her ribs. 

She wheezed and squirmed and rolled. Eve kept on coming, stomping and kicking at The Ghost until she skittered directly over a hot air vent. Snarling, Eve grabbed her by the hair and shoved her face directly against the grimy vent. Heat blasted into The Ghost’s eyes, nose, and mouth. She shook her head wildly, her hands flailing and trying to clutch at Eve’s legs; swift kicks followed, sharp against The Ghost’s fragile fingers until Eve heard the wet snap of a few on her left hand. 

Half-sobbing, The Ghost managed to roll over onto her side. The movement pitched Eve forward. The Ghost jolted up. Elbowed Eve in the stomach, then slapped her hard across the face as Eve’s knees came down to meet the parking garage floor. She caught a flash of The Ghost’s reddened features, flushed and contorted, before she swayed to her feet. 

The Ghost’s functional hand had just closed around the pistol’s grip when Eve pushed her. Stumbling, pivoting on the verge of recovery, The Ghost managed to fire single, useless shot before Eve pinned her to the trunk of a mean-looking sports car. Eve cranked her arm back, held it steady for a moment, then lips twisted in a grimace, she shot her fist forward until her knuckles crunched against The Ghost’s nose.

Blood spurted hot against Eve’s skin. She punched The Ghost again. Same spot. More blood splashed across Eve’s chin. Screaming. Numb fingers. Clattering gun. Eve’s foot slid it behind her as The Ghost wrestled with her iron grip. Sweating. Heart pounding. Breaths coming in rapid gasps while The Ghost thrashed. 

Eve beat her face, again and again. Crunches. Dull thuds. Caving cheeks, wet knuckles. Crimson splatter on the car paint. Sweaty hair, splitting lips. Bone against bone. When Eve remembered The Ghost’s hands inflicting wounds, memories of Villanelle’s soft, soothing touch eased the pain. When Eve recalled the scars all over her body, memories of Villanelle’s tender lips accompanied the harrowing sensations of torture. Villanelle’s footsteps echoed louder now; Eve spared a glance behind her to see Villanelle briskly approaching. 

This sliver of reprieve allowed The Ghost to knee Eve in the stomach. The Ghost swiftly disentangled herself and scrambled for the pistol. She aimed at Villanelle; Eve screamed as the shot went off. Villanelle had ducked behind a pickup truck just in time to avoid the bullet whizzing over her head. The Ghost fired again but her aim was unsteady as she ran up the rooftop ramp now. A few more shots deflated some tires and burst headlights in The Ghost’s wake.

Villanelle finally staggered over to Eve, fighting to get her air back. For a moment, she looked like she would puke, but she managed not to. Pure rage crossed her face. Eve expected Villanelle to give chase, to follow The Ghost in a flurry of movement, to yank Eve along with her. 

Instead, Villanelle collapsed. 

She slammed onto the floor. Shivering, twitching, flailing, Villanelle writhed at Eve’s feet. Her mouth was slack and her eyes were glassy. A sheen of sweat covered her bare arms; the dress came away stained black when Villanelle jerked onto her side.

The room wheeled. Eve’s balance shifted and her vision became black splotches on a red background. Her throat constricted. Some terrible pressure seized the base of her skull. The Ghost drifted away with each agonizing second while Villanelle’s outstretched hand caught the front of Eve’s heels; she had a stricken expression yet her face seemed as rigid as set concrete. Eve glanced over at the rooftop ramp. 

Cutting through the gloom of the parking garage, Eve ran away from Villanelle. 

* * *

Burning agony sprouted from Villanelle’s torso. The searing pain blocked out everything. It closed around Villanelle like a long, dark tunnel. Trapped, suffocating, fighting for air, Villanelle plunged through the surface of her pain to concentrate on the only objects in front of her that remotely made any sense: 

Eve’s heels. 

A distant part of Villanelle quivered with confusion while the rest of her was suffused with bone-deep warmth at the recollection Eve’s arms wrapped around her, Eve’s lips pressed to hers, Eve’s eyes and Eve’s laugh and Eve’s scent and Eve’s hair. 

But these heels, they were so _disconnected_ ; somehow, Villanelle expected them to be attached to Eve’s feet, and her legs, and then the rest of her that came into flawless design thanks to the detail that Villanelle’s mind retained. Only when alarm speared through the fog of semi-consciousness did Villanelle realize that her arm was blistering over a hot air vent. She yanked it away. In that instant she also wrenched herself out of that painful, dark tunnel and registered that she was now looking up at blazing blue parking lights. 

Squinting, Villanelle slowly got up. The cars surrounding her were covered with bullet holes. Her dress was ruined (which hurt far more than the seizure) and her hair tumbled down messily over her shoulders. A few levels down, cars whooshed and growled and prowled in search of places to park. 

The crack of gunfire set Villanelle into motion. A flash of Eve lying in a pool of her own blood turned Villanelle’s heart to ice. She could only stumble forward, one arm clenched to her side, towards their car. It was a destination she had wanted them to reach together; but each heavy step rubbed salt in the wound that suddenly blossomed in Villanelle’s chest. 

 _Alone._  

The vastness of this dank parking garage emphasized the merciless point that Villanelle was _alone_ , right here and right now. It wasn’t Eve that helped Villanelle lean against the hood of the car to catch her breath; it wasn’t Eve that guided her to the driver’s seat with steady hands; it wasn’t Eve that helped her sit behind the wheel; it wasn’t Eve who filled the car with her intoxicating scent, the one that had buried and rooted itself deeply in Villanelle’s mind. 

Without Eve and without feeling, Villanelle remained motionless in the car. She stared ahead; the windshield was awash with the tilt of Eve’s head as she’d confessed to Villanelle at their dinner table, the soft, trembling quiet of her low voice; the earnest light burning in her eyes as she looked at Villanelle, the wild thrusts of her fingers and loving licks of her tongue, the way she stripped Villanelle of all appearances just so she could crawl inside her heart and live there. 

_Forever._

Eve had declared an infinite feeling, flowing as deeply and swiftly as a sea without a shore. It seemed to flood the parking garage, to smash through the windshield and drown Villanelle. As she slowly buckled her seat belt, more gunfire blasted from the rooftop. She gripped the steering wheel hard. 

Then she turned the engine on. 

* * *

The cool evening breeze rustled Eve’s hair while she darted from cover to cover. Between parallel rows of damaged cars, Eve felt every pebble and loose screw and mud track and sharp object that passed beneath her frantic feet. The bottom of her stockings were already ripped and the rest of her dress wasn’t really faring any better; she lamented her lack of a sturdy handbag as she reached the end of a row and cautiously peered around the hood. 

The Ghost stood near the rooftop railing. She tipped her head this way and that to catch sight of Eve. From this distance, it was possible to make a run for the opposite row of pristine cars; Eve saw herself skulking alongside their decaled exteriors until she reached The Ghost again. 

Then, oh then...Eve shivered from a sensation that had nothing to do with the breeze. The rawness of that primal, violent power to _take_ life made her head spin and her heart trip over itself in an effort to speed aroused blood through her veins. To squeeze the life from The Ghost’s throat, to watch it leak from her coal-black eyes, to feel it shudder and gurgle and crush between her hands, to keep her in the trunk of a car for days and days and to torture her, this time _with Villanelle_ and all the artful, devious ways that she could make a body suffer- 

Time crashed through Eve’s thoughts like a runaway train. Villanelle’s pale, pained, face haunted every ragged breath that Eve took to ready herself. She banged on a car door to lure The Ghost. As soon as her head snapped in Eve’s direction, Eve bolted for another row of cars. 

Glass shattered. Bullets grazed side mirrors and dented grilles. Every _bang_ and _boom_ made Eve flinch, duck her head, and move faster. When she was as close as possible to the railing, she crouched in the shadow of a van to catch her breath. 

She saw The Ghost’s feet drifting from car to car. Eve braced herself, then quickly left cover. Before The Ghost could turn around, Eve locked her in a chokehold. They were roughly the same height and weight, although The Ghost’s wiry strength gave her the ability to struggle for longer. Eve gritted her teeth and hung on. 

Until The Ghost rammed the back of the pistol into Eve’s hip, then again into her abdomen. Air hissed out of Eve. Her energy deflated in a puff that barely afforded her enough vitality to grip The Ghost’s broken fingers and wrench them. Every scream fueled Eve’s motion. She jerked the pistol free just as The Ghost used that momentum to aim a kick at Eve’s head. 

It caught her in the chest as it came down. She stumbled backwards, still clutching the gun protectively. The Ghost advanced with punches flying. Eve barely dodged them. Fumbled to get enough distance to aim, to squeeze the warm trigger and watch the bullets rip through The Ghost and taste her flecks of blood and-

Eve cried out as The Ghost’s fist connected with her mouth. Her lips exploded, shredded bits of skin peeling down her chin, drops of blood staining the stark white front of her dress. Eve got off a shot that didn’t land anywhere near The Ghost. She fired again, distantly aware that the rooftop railing would soon press against her back. 

Suddenly, bright headlights all but blinded Eve. She heard the squealing of tires, the droning of the engine. The Ghost dove aside as the car headed right for Eve, swerved, and drifted alongside her. Throwing open the door, Eve got in and couldn’t meet Villanelle’s piercing eyes. 

Instead she gestured towards The Ghost, who was fleeing back down the rooftop ramp. Eve rolled the window down. Fired another shot that missed. Swore. 

“What are you waiting for?” she snapped at Villanelle. “Drive after her!”

Villanelle narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“What do you mean _no_?”

“You won’t be able to shoot her. And I feel so sick I-I cannot drive.”

“Fine! You shoot, I’ll drive!”

They traded places. Villanelle held onto the pistol so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She breathed shallowly. Eve slammed the accelerator down. Beyond the headlights, cars stood silently like nervous sentinels. Eve caught a flash of The Ghost’s black ponytail as she rounded a corner down to the lower level. 

Villanelle fired. Over and over, shots tearing through the night air. Some of them pierced tires. Others fractured windshields and windows. Eve couldn’t understand how Villanelle was missing the bobbing figure of The Ghost; she wasn’t all that far ahead of them, her harsh breaths becoming more audible as Eve closed the distance between them. 

Then the smell of fresh gasoline reached Eve. The next shot Villanelle fired made the exposed oil tank of a custom sports car explode with a deafening roar. Flames quickly spread to the next car, and the next, until the whole row was consumed by fire. Parts littered the garage floor; Villanelle kept firing at exhaust pipes to ignite row after row of exploding cars. 

The sound was amplified by the spiraling levels of the parking garage. Eve leaned forward keenly as The Ghost was finally illuminated by the headlights. There was a line up of cars directly in front of her. 

Eve sped up.

The car skidded along, kicked Eve’s heart into her throat, before the car slammed into The Ghost with a jarring, splattering, squelching shudder. 

Sobbing, screaming, crushed between two cars, The Ghost’s upper body twitched. She flailed. Attempted to heave herself free. Blood waterfalled below the hoods. The heavy stench of fire, raw gasoline, and wet, exposed flesh made Eve dizzy. She got out of the car. Approached The Ghost. Felt blood and guts soaking the soles of her feet. 

She brushed her curls aside, leaned forward with a smirk, and whispered into The Ghost’s ear:

“Your brats begged for you before they died.”

Amidst the smoking wreckage, Eve wiped her bloody mouth. She could barely make out Villanelle’s shilouette. As Eve ran beside her, Villanelle twisted around to aim at the exhaust pipe of their car. The remaining bullets found their mark. And the ensuing inferno stayed with Eve long after they emerged from what was left of the parking garage. 

* * *

In the dim hotel room, the iPhone that Konstantin clenched in his hands offered the only semblance of reality. He kept replaying the video that had appeared in his inbox more than two hours ago, pausing it to occasionally drink from a bottle of vodka that currently sustained him. 

Flashes of gunfire. Screaming. Pleas. Broken voices lost to knife slashes that opened up a t-shirt, a blouse, a cheek, a neck. Blood-slicked floor boards. Irina’s bullet-shredded body, floppy hair slanted across her motionless face, propped against the staircase landing. Konstantin’s wife draped over the living room couch, the large golden cross crooked on the wall behind her. An older Asian woman nearby, laying amongst the debris, her head as split open as the coffee table halves beside her. 

A pall of misery settled around Konstantin’s broad shoulders. His half-choked sobs shuddered through him and bounced loudly off the surrounding walls. He slammed back another mouthful of vodka just as the hotel room door opened. 

Eve and Villanelle came inside, heated from the conflicted, crackling energy of their argument. 

“You abandoned me! Again!” shouted Villanelle. 

“I did not! I was going after _the woman that tortured me!”_

“But I am not getting why you chose the woman that tortured you over the woman who _loves_ you!”

“If that’s how you feel, then why did you come back for me?” Eve retorted, her voice muffled by the thick blood that oozed from her mouth. 

“Because The Ghost took what is mine,” replied Villanelle. “She thought she could get away with hurting what is mine.”

Konstantin eased his head out of his shaking hands. He regarded them with red-rimmed, tear filled eyes. 

“Sit.”

Villanelle arched an eyebrow. “What is the matter with you?” 

“Sit!” 

Eve remained standing behind Villanelle, her hands clamped tightly on the back of the chair. 

“You look like a bear with its paw caught in the trap,” Villanelle said. 

Konstantin slid his iPhone over. He watched them staring at the screen, flinching at the sounds, descending into the horror which then dripped from their shocked eyes. Eve could have been carved from stone; Villanelle withdrew into herself like a hinterland sun dipping below the horizon to slumber until next season. 

Wordlessly, Villanelle got up and wrapped her arms around Konstantin while Eve lurched down onto the chair. She didn’t bother to wipe her tears away, or to lean into Villanelle’s touch when she reassuringly rubbed Eve’s shoulders. Villanelle coughed violently and drifted off to rummage around the hotel room for the atropine kit; Konstantin met her searching, intent gaze as she jabbed a needle into her arm. It was easier to focus on her than it was to give into the wailing, widening void that threatened to consume him. 

“Okay. Obviously I cannot have you two moping around,” said Villanelle. “So I am thinking that we need to figure out how we will kill Carolyn. And divide her into three. Maybe we draw straws for it?”

“The Ghost is dead, then?” Konstantin asked gruffly.

“Of course! Eve gave her a proper exorcism.” 

In happier circumstances, Konstantin would have allowed himself to feel a pang if pride. But looking at Eve set off tremors all throughout his body. His bellow startled Eve enough to make her look at him. 

“Did you not think that Carolyn would find my family at your mother’s house?”

Eve closed her eyes. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. 

“She wasn’t supposed to.” 

“But she did!”

“Yes. I know, Konstantin. My mother is just as dead as Irina and your wife. I know. I _know,”_ Eve emphasized, her voice rising, “so don’t you dare fucking sit there and blame me for this! Don’t!”

“Carolyn is to blame!” Villanelle’s sharp tone cut through Konstantin’s incoherent screams. “She was not supposed to find them, this is true. And she is thinking that we are not supposed to find her either. Which is why we will.”

Villanelle moved from room to room. She dragged suitcases to the table, dumped clothes inside them, grabbed her pistols, and flicked her hair expectantly. 

“What, are you going to just be sitting there, waiting for Carolyn to die? Get up! We’re going right now!”

“And _where_ are we going?”

Villanelle blinked. “You do not know?”

“I was just a Keeper. I have no idea where The Twelve are.”

Konstantin sighed heavily. His mind drifted to the cyanide pills tucked away in the suitcase; he wondered if he could grab them and find relief before Villanelle made him throw up.

“Okay. Eve? What is the plan?”

“I-I don’t have one.”

“It cannot be that hard to find Carolyn. Think, Eve!”

“Alright, alright!” Eve grasped fistfuls of her untamed hair. “Who do we know that could help us find Carolyn?”

“Kenny?” suggested Villanelle.

“Sure. But we don’t know where he is either.”

“Probably dangling from the end of Carolyn’s umbilical cord,” spat Konstantin. 

“Uh, who else...oh!” Eve’s glistening eyes widened. “What about Amber?”

Villanelle shrugged. “I don’t have a better idea, so…”

Konstantin let them bustle with their packing and their planning and their slinging of sidelong, suggestive looks loaded with enough vitriol to burn the soul. He remained at the table. Head bowed. Hands holding the iPhone hard enough to crush it. He replayed the video again. 

* * *

If Villanelle could have laughed at the ease with which she and Eve breached Amber Peel’s penthouse, she would have cackled all the way up to the sixth floor. 

The white marble lobby was marked by a pebbled wall, within which an electric fireplace blazed merrily. Scented candles blanketed the area with a soothing, pleasant aroma that lingered in Eve’s hair long after they entered the elevator. It was encased by floor to ceiling mirrors. Light poured from overhead, dipping the decorative accents in molten gold. Villanelle caught her own reflection multiplied all over the walls and oozing into Eve’s restless form, expanding and refracting as she nervously shifted around. 

Villanelle kept herself apart. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her black leather jacket in an effort to restrain herself from touching Eve. Sour emotions curdled in the pit of Villanelle’s stomach when she studied Eve’s face; wiped clean of emotion, barren from affection, carefully constructed to hide betrayal. She had not looked like this when she had promised Villanelle forever, when she had let Villanelle hold her hand, when she had kissed Villanelle with all the force of a hurricane, when she had held Villanelle close like she would never, ever pull away. 

The stab wound pulsed hot beneath Villanelle’s white shirt. The elegant elevator doors pinged open. For a moment, she lingered inside as Eve briskly walked on towards Amber’s suite. Moving aside the leather jacket, Villanelle’s fingers brushed against her pistols that were tucked into their shoulder holsters. The mirrors reflected the intensity of Villanelle’s gaze, the way she curled her grip around the pistols. 

She exited the elevator in a blur of motion. Eve had already shoved herself inside Amber’s suite; with a huff, Villanelle drew one pistol and thrust it into Amber’s face. She was wrapped in a silk robe, a cigarette dangling from one hand and her other hand held open in surrender. 

“You are too easy to find. What if we were here to kill you?”

Amber swallowed hard. She was close enough to kiss the pistol’s barrel.

“Are you?”

Villanelle tilted her head. “We haven’t decided yet.”

“Tell us where Carolyn is,” Eve demanded. 

“I can’t do that.” 

Amber backed away until she hit the sofa and plopped down onto it. Villanelle tracked her movements lazily with the pistol, gesturing just enough to keep Amber unsettled. 

“Do not be silly. You can do anything you want. Do you want to tell us where Carolyn is?”

“I-I...can’t.”

“But do you _want_ to?”

Amber took a long drag from her cigarette. “If I tell you, what are you going to do?”

“We’re going to kill her,” Eve answered. 

Amber nodded. “Don’t blame you. I do want to tell you where she is. But I, um, probably made your job harder.” 

Villanelle watched Eve absorb Amber’s confession of how she’d supplied Carolyn with a new drone fleet. She still seemed unmoved, untroubled, maybe even uninterested. Villanelle thumbed the hammer of her pistol. 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just take Carolyn down for conflict of interest?” Amber asked. She waved away a cloud of smoke. “I have all the invoices for the government money she used to pay my company for the work. She’d rot in jail for the rest of her life.”

“Smart girl. But Carolyn is going to die,” Eve insisted. 

“Okay, I get it’s personal. It’s not like I like her anyway.”

“So tell us where she is already,” said Villanelle.

“If I do...you won’t kill me?”

Villanelle sighed. She aimed the pistol at Amber’s chest. 

“If you want me to tell you, then you’ll have to protect me!” 

“What do you mean?” Eve asked. 

“Pharaday UK has to deal with corporate espionage all the time. I just can’t handle everything myself. That’s why I want to expand a new division of enforcers who are going to kick ass right back against any company that tries to destroy mine. Or to destroy me.”

“You want us to be your bodyguards or something?” exclaimed Villanelle. 

“Yeah. Along with being my top cyber mercenaries. You’d receive your contracts digitally, ‘cause that’s the most discreet. But beyond that, you can fulfill them any way you want. It’s not even that different from what you’re doing now, really. Still murder and espionage. Except you’d be getting a better compensation and benefits package.”

Eve laughed. “Why would we ever agree to this?” 

“Because the way I see it, we have two very simple options. The first is that we all walk away from each other. No obligations. No promises. No business deals. We won’t see or hear from each other ever again.”

“Sounds nice. And the second option?”

“We acknowledge that we have a common enemy. And as long as our goals align, I see no reason why you two couldn’t be a part of Pharaday UK’s future expansion.” 

“Oh sure,” Eve replied, sarcasm dripping from her tone, “we’d just have so much fun killing men and women in suits during their business meetings.”

“Eve, remember what happened the last time you said no to a generous offer?” Villanelle looked at Amber coldly. “Now _I_  am saying that we will think about it.”

“Please do. It might help to keep in mind that we’re looking to expand into the pharmaceutical and biotechnology fields…drug treatments are expensive, I hear.” Amber looked pointedly at them both. “Then also consider the fact that there’s nowhere for you to hide. Nowhere. We’d always be able to find you. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Amber crossed over to her desk which was placed in front of several large abstract paintings. She rummaged around the desk drawers, crushed out her cigarette on top of a folder, then nonchalantly swept it off her desk. “The employee contracts are in my office desk, I’m afraid. But you’ll be needing these.”

Villanelle finally lowered her gun when Amber presented them with numerous pairs of wireless earpieces. 

“These are out of their prototype phase. They’ve got a huge radius. High definition sound. You can link as many as you want within the same frequency. And they’re comfy, too.”

Eve snatched some earpieces, inspected them in the palm of her hand. 

“Hope you two have got lots of warm clothes. Carolyn is hiding in an abandoned Siberian gulag.”

Villanelle disguised her surprise with a drawn-out groan. 

“Of course, it has to be somewhere cold.”

“Think of this operation as your trial period,” Amber said as Eve scribbled the co-ordinates down. “If you’re both successful, I’ll officially hire you. If you’re not, then that’s just a waste. Get me?”

“Yes.”

“Fantastic. Anything else you want me to do now?”

Eve smiled grimly. 

“Just let Carolyn know we’re coming.”


	20. Shock To The System

Fresh tire tracks disturbed the glistening snow. A gust of wind quickly swept them away, whistling and howling in the wake of the Jeep. Even its double layered and insulated windows couldn’t stop rattling from the force of the frigid air as the vehicle barrelled through corpses of fir trees. The tires were pumped with gaseous antifreeze, along with the insulated engine, battery, and fuel pipes; still, Konstantin always left the Jeep running for fear that a moment of idleness would freeze everything and everyone over. 

The heated seats were a blessing Villanelle appreciated more and more the closer that dusk roamed. Inside the Jeep, her body was warmed and the air was toasty enough for her to keep her visor off. But the protection that her thick ski mask provided over her ears and the rest of her head wasn’t something she wanted to risk removing; neither did Konstantin or Eve, from the looks of persistent dread on their pale faces. 

Most of their gear was courtesy of Konstantin’s friendly connections within the KGB, like the Jeep and their steady supply of fuel, water, and food locked tight in the trunk. All of them wore thermal heated, water resistant, and windproof layers. The outermost one served as a hard exoskeleton constructed from white-coloured carbon armour plates and pieces of windproof material woven together by Kevlar thread. Below that layer was the thermal insulation, followed by their water-resistant suits that were also reinforced by Kevlar. 

Their equipment packs housed water and food rations, bandages, alcohol, rope, paper maps, a mechanical compass, a flashlight, mounds of ammunition, and a spare charged battery for their earpieces. In the back seat, Eve was re-checking the ammunition supply for the millionth time. She fidgeted with the packs strung across her utility belt, then groped the pistol grip at her hip. It was a silenced pistol not unlike the one she had trained with, similar in weight and design but with more stopping power. 

A shotgun was propped up against the backseat and Konstantin’s ammunition bandoliers were slung across his torso while the rest bulged from his equipment pack. Almost reflexively, Villanelle’s fingers reached inside her thermal layer to feel for the knife sheathed there. It was not a large knife or a long one, nor was its blade especially wicked; it was just thin and long and sharp enough to be a useful companion during a moment of crisis. 

On the left side of the Jeep, the Western Ural Mountains loomed large and dark. The bleak sky was flecked with sleet and the grasslands were painted with perpetual frost. The land beyond Villanelle’s icy window was white and gauzy and indistinct, giving her the impression that she teetered on the edge of the world. She did not distinguish her spirit from her body, which was interwoven together by all the senses and compelled into motion by this iridicscent, burning freedom to reach for the stars. 

Konstantin guided the Jeep past mines and oil wells, gaping geothermal craters that exposed the bowels of the frozen earth, and snow dunes interspersed with glittering ice. Night fell swiftly over the Jeep like a thick, musty blanket. The wind picked up. Konstantin kept driving, with the Jeep trundling along a frozen river loudly enough to jolt Villanelle awake. 

She could only make out the sheets of snow and ice that shifted within the Jeep’s headlights. The tires pushed ice splinters to the thin surface of the river. They glowed bright green in the headlights. Villanelle gripped the door handle so tightky she felt her knuckles pop. She glanced over at Konstantin; his mouth was set in a stubborn line, his bearded chin jutted out resolutely as he feathered the accelerator pedal and wrestled with the steering wheel. 

The opposite river bank could not be seen in the chilling darkness. Wolf howls pierced the air. Drawn out creaking and moaning added to their cacophonous chorus with every roll of the relentless tires. 

“If we fell through the ice here, it would be quite a shock to the system,” Konstantin remarked dryly. 

Villanelle shut her eyes as the Jeep trembled in response. The ice fractured in the yellow headlights, splintering and shooting through the river’s surface. She could almost feel the sloshing water freezing her veins, the icicles of hypothermia ramming themselves into her spine. It was as if all the air inside the Jeep suddenly disappeared; Villanelle heaved in shallow breaths, quicker and quicker at the fresh sound of screeching ice. 

Konstantin alternated between swearing at the Jeep and trying to placate it. He coaxed enough motion from it to slide it ever so slightly onwards, the tires skating instead of grinding against the fragile frozen surface. The ice below held firm, and the Jeep continued creeping forward. When the tires finally hit the opposite river bank, Villanelle lurched out of the Jeep. She fell to her knees, dry heaves wracking her aching body. Konstantin helped her stand and drag herself into the driver’s seat. Eve did not stir from her exhausted slumber until rays from the rising sun drifted across her face.

They spent three days driving on Kolyma Highway.

“A road gulag prisoners built during Stalin’s rule,” explained Konstantin. “I am sure the gulag itself had plenty of underground tunnels that they tried to dig for escape.”

It was not much of a road, Villanelle thought to herself. The edges were only slightly ridged in the snow to distinguish it from the rest of the vista that stretched endlessly on either side. White blurred into white, each kilometre indistinguishable from the last. The unrepentantly straight line of the horizon blended into the snow-swept road as well. Wind wailed alongside the car. 

Villanelle blinked sweat from her eyes. She felt possessed by an eerie calm. The Jeep ground to a halt and she lowered her visor in preparation to exit. Her breath wheezed out of her lungs as soon as her boots hit the snow with a crunch. 

“I am walking,” Villanelle announced. 

“Get back inside!” Eve grasped at her own door handle, fought against the piled up equipment to get out. 

“We will stop up ahead,” Konstantin said flatly.

“I will catch up,” said Villanelle.

Her vision was tinted by the visor’s soft yellow colour which prevented her from constantly squinting against the sunlight. Breaths came in short puffs that instantly crystallized upon contact with the air. Villanelle brushed off stray snow that settled over the visor, streaking its surface with wetness that would have crusted there if she hadn’t promptly wiped it all away. 

The muscles in her cramped legs and abdomen felt hot from the brisk pace she set. Her stab wound burned. She barely allowed herself to peel her lips away from the water bottle she drank from before her breath was brutally snatched from her. Shivering, Villanelle shouldered her pack and continued on. Her eyes were fixed on the shimmering blob in the distance; as long as she kept the Jeep in her sights, she continued putting one foot after the other. 

Once the sun had set and darkness settled around Villanelle, she kept the flickering flashlight pointed just ahead of her feet. A quick glance behind her confirmed that the wind was obliterating her footsteps as soon as they appeared. Dusting snow across her ankles. Taunting her with her own insignificance. The cutting edge of the wind hollowed Villanelle’s bones to leave a lonely shiver in its aftermath. 

Two wavering points of light shone up ahead. They morphed into the Jeep’s headlights when Villanelle drew closer. Then she noticed Eve’s form huddled around the engine. Hands outstretched towards its warmth, thick woven scarf double-wrapped around her visor, she squared her shoulders against the wind that whipped snow across her chest. Villanelle peered inside the Jeep to catch Konstantin dozing in the back, his hand wrapped protectively around the shotgun. 

Villanelle quickly slipped a finger beneath her visor to bring her snug earpiece to life. The accompanying ping and vibration announced that Eve had linked to her frequency. Neither of them said a word for a few more moments, preferring to listen to the soundtrack of the wind while they leeched the engine’s heat. 

“You’re still awake,” said Villanelle. Her breath fogged the visor, her chapped lips barely having enough space to let her raspy words through. 

“Couldn’t sleep. Too much on my mind.”

_Am I on your mind, darling?_

“I know what you mean. But we need to rest. Save our strength. It will not be easy, killing Carolyn.”

An almost imperceptible shudder passed over Eve. She made a show of rubbing her gloved hands together. Her voice sounded strained. 

“I’m sure we’ll manage. We have Konstantin for backup.”

“Sure. He can go in front of us, because he is fat enough to absorb all the bullets.”

Eve’s short laugh crackled in Villanelle’s earpiece. She felt a pleasant buzz reverberate in her jaw, spread down to her chest and somehow glow as hot as the rumbling engine. Although she could not see Eve’s face, Villanelle hoped that her expression was attentive. She also hoped that Eve’s hair, even bunched up under the visor, would flow like the sea when it was freed. Once, Villanelle had seen the sea and liked it a lot, so much so that felt she could not live without it. But now she missed it almost not at all, almost like she did not miss not seeing Eve’s curls in these headlights. 

“What if we-”

The halting voice inside Villanelle’s ear stopped itself just short of pursuing memory, history, desire, forgetfulness, dreams. It sounded like every promise ever made. But the fact that it _stopped_ reminded Villanelle of every promise ever broken. 

Eve continued, as if she’d found a world torched into renewal instead of a snowy scattered wasteland, dead for this year and all the years to come, although it still believed that the search for the secrets buried beneath its crust would never stop. 

“What if we just...turned back?” 

A sense of foreboding crept into Villanelle’s rib cage, curled up snug and refused to budge. Her heart had only just begun to thaw but here came the blasting, icy breeze of Eve’s words to freeze it up again. 

“You can go back if you want, Eve.”

Her gasp hung in the air like a wraith. 

“I-I don’t want to _go back,_ I want us to be safe.” 

“Don’t you trust me, Eve?”

“Of course I do.”

Like a reflex that kicked in at the most inopportune of times, a familiar feeling of resentful excitement flooded over Villanelle. She moved away from the engine. Gestured for Eve to follow. 

“If you go back now, you’ll find that nothing is the same.”

“Why?”

“Because I will not be around.”

Villanelle led Eve to the shoreline of a frozen lake. The waves that had crashed there dotted the cost with amazing ice patterns that resembled sculptures. Eve examined one that seemed to have been frozen by a gust of wind in the middle of coming down. Delicate droplets were suspended in their descent, while flowing lines of transparent ice glowed hauntingly blue in the flashlight’s beam. 

“Who do you think you are to me, Eve?”

“I-I’m your wife, Villanelle.”

“But you forget...without me, you are nothing.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you turn back now, maybe MI6 might still get you a nice, fake identity. You could go back to pretending to be a real person. You could drink your tea and imitate happiness and keep yourself busy chasing other female assassins. Maybe fuck them too, it you are that bored.”

“Villanelle-”

She stepped onto the lake, boots gliding across its frozen surface. As long as she kept talking, Eve kept following, and so Villanelle allowed Eve to move on her currents as they drifted further from the shore.

“But you’d still find me, even if I was not around. I’d haunt you. When you wake up and stare at your ceiling fan. In between bites of your cereal. On the way to work. In the middle of shuffling papers. At the bar. During conversations. You would be so busy, just to keep me off your mind-”

The layer of ice covering the lake groaned. Crackled beneath Villanelle’s heel. She spun around and spoke to Eve while walking backwards. 

“Still, I would never leave. Do you know that, Eve? I would never leave you. I’d stay. When you are making dinner. Watching a movie. When you crawl into bed, to sleep or to touch yourself. And in those precious few seconds before you’d shove a gun into your mouth and pull the trigger...I’d be right there.”

They were just past the middle of the lake now. The wind whimpered. Theatrically fat snowflakes were blowing about. Eve’s panting breaths drifted briefly in the tense air before dissipating with a puff. 

Villanelle kicked the lake’s surface sharply. “So it is too late to go back now.”

The ice splintered at the point of impact, hairline fractures spreading across the ice. Thin trickles of water seeped from the breaks, wetting Eve’s boots as she lunged forward. Villanelle stepped away. She smirked beneath her visor, imagining Eve’s angry expression and the delightful flush soaring into her cheeks. Heedless of the ice, Eve continued to pursue Villanelle; shifts in weight and depth did nothing to slow down her onslaught. 

By the time Eve ran out of breath, Villanelle had already stepped onto the opposite shore. Eve stumbled to join her. She dropped to her knees and remained on the ground while Villanelle turned her equipment pack inside out. Eve caught the food and water rations with shaking fingers; her teeth chattered, from the sounds spilling out of Villanelle’s earpiece.

“If you do not like it, then don’t stay here with me,” Villanelle said brusquely. “You can go around the lake. Back to the Jeep. Even if it takes you all night.” 

Eve sat down next to her equipment pack. She ate without acknowledging Villanelle, tucked herself away later between the pack and a snow dune. Eventually, they slept with their bodies close together, but faced away from each other, a chasm between them. 

Konstantin picked them up in the Jeep at the crack of dawn. Whatever fury Villanelle expected him to show at their excursion was not visible on his haggard face. The road kept plodding through the barren, glacial fields, bearing the Jeep along its fated course. There was little to distinguish the slate-grey sky from the dull, seamless earth. Not even the crash of mountains split the sky and not a single ice sculpture pierced the wide, wide space. But the night before they reached the gulag, the sky lit up with the emerald hues of aurora borealis. 

Maneuvering over the crest of a ridge, Eve kept lowering her head to get a better view of the weaving shades of dancing lights. Her dark eyes reflected their brightness and radiance. Villanelle found herself tracing the lines of her soft jaw with her eyes, hungering to reach out and replace the punishing cold inside herself with the warm comfort of Eve’s skin. 

“I wish I didn’t want impossible things,” murmured Villanelle.

“Look, we’re going into a lot of danger. And I-I don’t know exactly if we’ll come out alright. But I do need to know, right now…are we alright?”

“We are...alive.”

A flicker of some hard emotion illuminated Eve’s eyes just as the northern lights slanted into a breathtaking ribbon. 

“It feels like you’re shutting me out.”

“I have no interest in human contact anymore except with you. But if I let you in, you will just leave again.”

“No!”

“Why should I believe that?”

“Because I love you.”

Villanelle closed her eyes. Behind them, colours smeared and trembled. 

“Eve, you have said that before. And still you did not stay.” 

“This is about The Ghost isn’t it? I thought that you, of all people, would understand revenge.”

“I do. Believe me, I do.”

“Then why aren’t we alright? Tell me. Please.”

“You know why.”

“Oh stop it!” Eve’s tone was approaching the breaking point between desperation and anger. “Villanelle, sometimes you don’t know what you’re going to do in a certain situation until you have to do it. That’s the only way to know for sure. I can’t believe this is so hard for you to understand!”

“Something happened to you. I am not sure when. Maybe it has been happening before you met me. Doesn’t matter. I am telling you now that I believe you make your own fate. That it’s not held to some ominous figure or picked by random, but with every breath you take and every word you say, your fate shifts. Are we on the same page or…?”

“Yes.”

“There’s something unwritten about us, like we’re being pushed together and forward in this jumble you call life.”

The Jeep drudged through brutal sub-zero temperatures that smashed against its husk. Wind threatened to pry its fingers past door cracks and to latch onto every patch of exposed skin. By mid-morning, ravens greeted their wary approach, calling to each other across the gulag remnants. Eve halted the Jeep outside the crumbled perimeter; they all exited with their weapons drawn, cautiously crunching on the snowy footpath that pushed past what used to be the main camp entrance. 

Weathered metal sheets. Bleached stone blocks. A pair of splintered wooden chairs. Rusted chain link fences, with barbed wire rattling in the high-pitched wind. Ghostly mist pooled around the towering hollows of structures. Where once emaciated prisoners had toiled for countless hours and the soil had soaked the blood of thousands of executions, now there was only emptiness and ruin. 

Konstantin brought up the rear, hefting his shotgun and stomping over piles of frozen bones. He nearly fell into a waist-deep hole that gaped open thanks to his heavy footsteps disturbing the ground. The twitching ravens took flight at Eve’s presence; Villanelle noted that their feathers were the same colour as Eve’s hair. Suddenly, the force of that scent memory made Villanelle linger at the top of an incline. 

As if in a dream, she watched Eve prowling towards six bulky guards that stood with their hands draped over their rifles. Villanelle barely restrained herself from crying out. Instead, she bounded after Eve and steered them both behind a thicket of fir-trees. While they offered only permeable cover, they did provide enough camouflage for Villanelle to quickly assess the situation. She glanced behind her to see Konstantin strolling along with his shotgun primed. In a few moments, he would be within full view and range of the guards.

A well of excitement tightened Villanelle’s muscles as she put two guards in her sights, pistols unwavering. It was a minor miracle that Eve’s hands remained steady as she aimed through a slot of branches, its needles encrusted with ice and snow. Short breaths. Pounding heart. The sting of sweat in her eyes and wet on her lips. Violence uncoiling in her heart, widening her horizons.  

Then the resounding, booming shout of Konstantin shotgun. Two guards dropped. Eve unleashed one shot after another, followed by Villanelle downing the last of the guards. As they picked their way past the bodies, Eve buried an extra bullet into their heads. The snow flared red.

Silence and stillness reigned. The guard’s footprints trailed to an opening in the gulag’s compound that looked recently built. Its concrete walls stood strong against the battering wind. Fresh paint designated the entrance, with arrows pointing the way to a spiral staircase. Pale lights illuminated the descent. Crawling shadows haunted Eve, Villanelle, and Konstantin as they clanked down the steps. With each passing moment, it seemed like the weight of the world was pressing heavily down on them. Suffocating. Restrictive. 

And damp, Villanelle noticed, as she wiped away a foggy sheen from her visor. Her breaths came in cramped, hot heaves. She wrestled her visor off. It fell to the metal floor with a bang that startled Eve and Konstantin. They liberated their own heads from the visors, huffing and puffing until their flushed faces paled in the cooler air. It retained its stale scent, but it was tinged with an unmistakable electric current that made the hairs on the back of Villanelle’s neck stand up. 

Dread rose on a current of bile in her throat. She clenched her pistols and brought them up just in time to round a sharp corner. The hall that stretched on in front of her was illuminated by amber ceiling lights; a polished, tiled floor led to a skeletal silver elevator. And in front of it stood Carolyn. 

Years of training, of muscle memory, of awakened senses and heightened focus allowed Villanelle to fire a round of precise shots that slammed into the first two silver drones that protected Carolyn. They were jolted from their course but otherwise undeterred. Villanelle fired again, and then again until their exterior shells sparked and smoked. Konstantin barked at her in Russian that _there is nowhere for us to take cover!_ but all Villanelle saw in her red haze was the tall, thin, figure of Carolyn cloaked with a long fur coat and crowned with an equally thick fur ushanka. 

The drones returned fire. Villanelle ducked. Retreated back to where Eve was peering wide-eyed around the corner. But Konstantin walked forward. His first shotgun blast took down the drone on his right. The follow-up blast never came; instead, his pained scream echoed down the hallway. Swearing, Villanelle chanced a look: Konstantin was clutching his left ear. Blood oozed from between his fingers. The top of his ear lay on the floor behind him, along with shredded bits of skin and thin lines of blood. 

Carolyn’s monotonous and merciless voice carried easily down the hallway. 

“Surrender your weapons or you will be shot.”

Eve retaliated by shooting around the corner. The drones responded by firing two successive rounds that ripped off the edge of the wall and pressed Eve back into Villanelle’s chest. Konstantin lumbered to cover, leaned heavily against the adjacent wall, and tried his best to reload his shotgun while being thoroughly unbalanced. 

“Surrender your weapons,” Carolyn repeated. “Slide them down to me, for goodness sake. We can’t have a productive conversation if we’re blasting away at each other.”

Villanelle exchanged glances with Eve and Konstantin. He lifted his shoulders in half a shrug and quirked a bushy eyebrow still in the midst of defrosting. 

“How if we do a cease fire?” suggested Konstantin. “For old times sake. You don’t shoot us, we don’t shoot you. Simple.”

“Always the negotiator, Konstantin. Always trying to be double agent.” Carolyn’s pause made Villanelle’s spine quiver. “I hope you’re being sincere. It would be such a shame if you lot didn’t get a chance to experience the grand tour.”

Slowly, Konstantin lowered his shotgun. He kicked it around the corner. 

“What are you doing?” hissed Villanelle. 

“Buying time,” Konstantin growled. 

“I suppose I do not need these to kill Carolyn.” 

Villanelle loosed a resigned sigh. She shoved her pistols away. 

“What if _I_ kill Carolyn?” Eve whispered. 

“I would congratulate you,” muttered Konstantin, “but that will not happen unless we get close.”

Glowering, Eve kicked her pistol after the rest of the guns and crossed her arms. Villanelle peered around the corner again to see the drones whizzing through the air to clamp their mechanical claws around the discarded weaponry. Not a shot was fired as Konstantin stepped out of cover, his hands raised slightly in a gesture of surrender. 

“Wow,” Villanelle mocked in his wake, “I cannot believe you haven’t shot us!”

“Yet,” added Eve, from a few steps behind.

“Let me put it plainly: you have already lost. But there’s no point to this little game until you’ve handed over those last three USBs and grasped the complete picture. That’s not possible if you’re dead.” Carolyn beckoned to them, a smirk stretching her thin lips in a grotesque mimicry of joy. “After you.”

There had been twelve drones in total, with one destroyed by Konstantin’s point-blank shotgun blast. The remaining few drifted above their heads. Villanelle counted them twice to keep her nerves in check, to refrain from crying out in panic when one dipped lower to flank her on the left side. 

With a doomed groan, the elevator’s maw opened. They all crammed inside it beneath the ominous, infrared gaze of the drones. As the elevator shuddered and screeched into motion, bearing them even deeper below the frozen ground, Villanelle let herself stand in Eve’s shadow. 

* * *

The last thing that Eve expected from The Twelve’s headquarters was for it to smell like apricot jam. 

Or perhaps it was just the antechamber that carried such a sickly sweet fragrance, something so out of place in an environment that was clearly meant to be cleansed of humanity’s filth. Eve allowed herself a small mental correction while she absorbed the spotless, shining floors; the clean lines of the geometric, contemporary architecture; its juxtaposition with traditional Russian elements of exposed, meticulously carved wood and onion-like domes; and the austere thick walls cleaved by small, narrow windows that offered insight into food, recreation, training, and meeting rooms as well as spacious work offices exhibiting workers absorbed in their tasks.

Following Carolyn down the labyrinthine halls evoked a sense that the headquarters was not some monolithic, boxed in space, but rather an ecosystem where digital language and human energy interchanged. The need for a freezing climate quickly became apparent with each massive server room that they passed; constantly blinking lights, routers, switches, and firewalls collided with backup equipment and fire suppression facilities. Such cavernous digital confines surely would have overheated within moments if it wasn’t for the carefully integrated climate control units. Two problems were cleverly combined into a single solution: the removal of heat from some areas and the requirement for increased heat in others.

Indeed, some of the rooms Carolyn ushered them through were warmer than others, better furnished with cozy couches and coffee tables. Clusters of people chatted together, laughed, looked at glowing screens. Several exotic species of plants thrived in the more humid rooms, adding a welcome lush green colour to the otherwise dull and pale environment palette. 

The next series of corridors and metal walkways were conjoined by large copper conductors and pipes. Eve heard the hissing of gas, the clanking of machinery. Villanelle glanced below them when she heard the low murmurs of passersby, who looked up with their dull eyes and sallow skin shining in the harsh lights. Carolyn seemed oblivious; her pace was brisk yet unburdened. The drones hovering around her seemed to hold her attention, like she was trying to prove that she could experience an entire physical event merely by association or even by algorithm.

Such a symbiosis of state-of-the-art technology and sober architecture intertwined with glass and steel and dark earth and damp leaves and the incessant thrumming of people made Eve’s skin crawl. Carolyn took them deeper into the abode of failed experiments, of electrical guts and sparking wires torn from abandoned projects, where the ghosts of spite writhed in the ozone-scented air. Her voice sounded oddly robotic.

“We have crossed a great evolutionary line. Ages ago, we believed that the sky could fall on our heads. And we truly, irrevocably believed that offering blood was the only way of stopping this from happening to us. Time has shown that perhaps we were mistaken altogether. Or perhaps,” added Carolyn sardonically, “our tragedy was that we could simply not spill enough blood to prevent the sky from falling upon us after all.”

Just around the corner, a long hallway led to a massive silver door. An arrow was emblazoned upon it, stirring familiar memories in the back of Eve’s mind. Her eyes flicked up at the cadre of silver drones. She scowled: her pistol, along with Villanelle’s pistols and Konstantin’s shotgun, were carried just out of reach by three drones. Carolyn occasionally brought out her ivory coloured controller with its silver buttons and display screen. She stroked her bony fingers against the edges, clearly toying with the idea of inputting some commands. But she ended up returning the controller to her coat pocket each time. Her hand stayed in there now. The silver door loomed closer. 

“But times are different now. We no longer wish to send our children to die in wars. We no longer want to slave away at meaningless, dreary jobs. We no longer want to wade through innards and puke to get to the purity of a cure.” Carolyn glanced at her drones. “I don’t love technology. Really, I don’t. But I understand that we have been shackled for eternities, so we must be set free in this new age.”

Eve’s temples pounded, the blood boiled in her skull. It felt as if there was something alive scurrying in there; a rat, gnawing through her brains, eating its way out into the damned world. 

Carolyn placed her hand onto an ID reader beside the door to make it slide open with a sigh. She led Eve, Villanelle, and Konstantin into what appeared to be an amphitheater. Grim looking guards were stationed around its circular perimeter. Elegant wooden workstations ringed the room. The sound of several people typing away on their laptops rippled throughout the quiet. Layered stone walls on the left side displayed different maps of the world; a few glowed with bright red dots. The right side of the wall had spaces where the stone was permeated with glass facades that showed the escape tunnels gulag prisoners had desperately dug with their bare hands. 

The descending rows of workstations eventually met at the front of the room. A silver globe was suspended in the middle of a column illuminated by soft blue light, and around it were more workstations. Kenny waved at Carolyn as she approached, a tired smile on his face. Eve halted close to Villanelle as Carolyn turned to make sweeping gestures.

“I suppose I should welcome you to our inner sanctum. One can gain entry only through the ultimate sacrifice. Such as disposing of one’s dearest family member or closest friend. Perhaps one’s lover, or their lover’s husband.” Carolyn glanced pointedly at Villanelle, then at Eve. “Or even their own husband.”

“Then The Twelve is a cult? Fucking fantastic,” Eve muttered. 

“Cult is such a crass term. You might rather say that The Twelve is a non-state organization. Some call it terrorist group. Others think it’s a secret society. It has been all of these things over the years. Most of all, it has been remarkably adaptable and transformative.”

Carolyn invited them to step closer, to bow before the base of the column in order to see what was there. Eve saw a silver rectangular object with two blinking lights set an equal distance apart, like this was an altar and those lights were twin candles and she was bent to the will of a central saint which cast its light to the corners of this amphitheater-turned chapel.

Wires sprouted from the sides of the object. Several of them connected with the surrounding workstations. There was a low, faint purring emanating from the object’s core; it was distinctly mechanical in the chilled air. A flat glass interface distorted Eve’s reflection as she peered closer. 

“What  _is_ this?” 

“This,” Carolyn gestured to the object, “is The Twelve.”

Eve stared. Behind her, Konstantin coughed loudly to disguise what might have been an uproarious laugh. Villanelle leaned over Eve’s shoulder, wide eyed and intensely focused. 

“I-I don’t believe it,” Eve said meekly. 

“Yet they say seeing is believing, Eve.”

"You’re looking at the world’s most sophisticated quantum computer,” explained Kenny, “running on an AI program designed exclusively by Pharaday UK.”

He positioned himself closer to Carolyn, which meant that he was also coincidentally within Eve’s reach. She shifted her weight onto her other foot and inched closer to him. Villanelle boldly shoved herself right in front of Carolyn to glare at The Twelve’s silent interface.

“Please tell me that I did not work for this-this-this _thing_ ,” she snapped, her voice dripping with contempt. 

“The original human leadership of The Twelve was getting too old, too set in its ways,” chided Carolyn. “I count myself among them. I just happened to also be the only one that ensured our most suitable replacement.”

“But it’s a _computer!”_

“Yeah Eve, glad you got that.” Kenny grinned. “It’s the AI that makes The Twelve think creatively. Take its software system: it learns normal network behavior and detects cyber threats based on deviation from that behavior. So it proactively gets things like malware and security loopholes in its data systems. I’ve also tweaked it to thoroughly screen and analyze incoming and outgoing data for security threats. It’s important for the USB sequence-for the, um, the kill sequence.”

“What is it for, exactly?”

“Each sequence is meant to stabilize the world, Eve. Not throw it into chaos, as I led Frank to believe,” answered Carolyn. “Natural disasters. Economic upheaval. Murder and outbreaks of violence. There are far too many threats in this world, along with the people who perpetuate them. But you see, there is no prejudice with The Twelve. It is not political. It simply conducts a risk assessment and then produces kill sequences to eliminate the most worrisome threats accordingly.”

“Then why use Keepers and Assassins?” demanded Konstantin. 

“As I told Eve and Villanelle, the Keepers keep data. And thanks to Kenny, they now maintain The Twelve. It has one database for our assets and one for our threats. But a computer cannot carry out assassinations by itself. So naturally, impeccably trained and highly skilled operatives were needed in the field.” Carolyn grimaced at her drones. “That is all changing now, thanks to technology. But it worked exceptionally well for its time.”

“Why Villanelle?” Konstantin pressed.

“You are the last of your kind, Oksana. A real and true assassin. And the very best, because you were trained to be.” Carolyn sighed. “Eve, I said I was doing what was best for both you and Villanelle when I kept you with The Ghost at MI6.”

“Thanks for that, Carolyn. Really.” 

“Together, you and Villanelle are the most dangerous threat The Twelve has ever known. I did warn you to be careful and discreet. But by keeping you apart, I was attempting to turn its attention away. If The Ghost hadn’t tortured you Eve, you would have found Villanelle much faster. And then you both would have died much sooner. I was trying to buy you both time.”

Eve felt sick. “Why?”

“Because I needed you. Thanks to your efforts, you handily disposed of the old guard of Keepers and allowed Kenny to make up for their incompetence. You kindly brought back vulnerable kill sequence data contained in the USBs. You eliminated The Ghost as your primary competition. And you voluntarily delivered yourselves, the greatest threat, right to my doorstep.”

Villanelle straightened. Eve practically felt the sinewy strength rippling through her muscles, the magnetism of her predatory posture. Before she could move, Carolyn ordered:

“Give the USBs to Kenny.”

Eve handed them over, secreting the corrupted USB between the first and last ones in the sequence. Kenny returned them to his desk. The Twelve’s interface finally came to life a few moments later. Coordinates lit up, along with data read outs of specific locations that spanned the globe. Villanelle turned to look at the map on the other wall; Eve followed her gaze to see multiple red dots add themselves in a flurry. She looked back at the screen. Swallowed hard. Tried to ignore the fear that was racing up her spine. 

Konstantin stood as still as a statue. His eyes seemed wet but Eve couldn’t tell from the angle of his face. He glowered at the drones and seemed to be muttering to himself in Russian. Eve looked back at The Twelve’s interface when she was rewarded with a shrill alarm and the sequence froze. 

Carolyn yawned. “What’s happened, Kenny?”

“Dunno. Let me check.” A few mumbled swears later, and Kenny declared:

“Uh, The Twelve has been corrupted.”

“Oh dear...I thought you had protection against this sort of thing.”

“Yeah. For malware and viruses and stuff. But this is ransomware and I-I just haven’t gotten that far yet.” 

“You sound a touch impressed, Kenny,” drolled Carolyn. 

“I am, actually. I mean I can’t get back into The Twelve’s system. But...there’s no monetary amount attached to the ransomware.”

“That’s right,” said Eve. “I thought I was just corrupting something to do with drones, but this turned out to be even better. Because you won’t be able to restore access to the system until Carolyn pays our ransom.”

“But how can I possibly pay if there's no monetary amount?” 

“With your life Carolyn,” Konstantin growled.

In a flash, Villanelle took out her knife and pressed it hard against Carolyn’s throat. 

“Get the drones to drop our weapons,” snarled Villanelle. “No tricks, or you’ll be dead before you can even press a button.”

Very slowly, Carolyn got out her controller and obeyed. Eve hastily picked up her pistol. Konstantin reloaded his shotgun. Villanelle jerked Carolyn closer to where her pistols were dropped. The knife’s edge dug into Carolyn’s throat.

“Now call off the drones.”

“I-I can’t,” choked Carolyn. 

“Then stop the guards!”

Before Carolyn could issue any orders to them, Konstantin fired his shotgun in quick succession. The guards dropped in bloody piles, their rifles clattering on the polished floor. Eve picked a few more off and Konstantin took care of the rest. But it was Kenny who set off the alarm, which in turn unleashed a series of security procedures that resulted in blaring sirens, flashing red lights, and automated commands echoing throughout the amphitheater. 

“Turn it off!” Eve whirled around. She clenched her pistol tightly in her sweaty grip. “Turn it all off!”

“No.” Kenny placed himself firmly in front of The Twelve. “I won’t let you do this.”

“Get out of my way, Kenny.”

“No.” 

“Carolyn, tell him to move or I’ll-I’ll shoot him!”

Carolyn’s tone was as cold as the Siberian climate. 

“Then shoot him.”

Kenny’s face went pale with shock. 

“Mum?”

Eve squeezed the trigger. The bullet slammed squarely into Kenny’s chest. Its point of impact blossomed into blood and torn flesh and a gaping hole that spilled rivers of crimson that left Eve’s boots sticky. She fired another shot just to stop his spasms and horrible gasping. 

While Carolyn looked down blanky at Kenny’s corpse, Eve put the pistol to her temple in warning. Villanelle shrugged off her steaming protective thermal layer, stuffed the knife into her utility belt, and retrieved her pistols in order to aim them at Carolyn. The sirens kept splitting the air with their high pitched wails as Eve and Konstantin stripped off their own bulky protective thermal layers. 

The sound of trampling boots breached the outer amphitheatre. Eve desperately fired at The Twelve’s interface, which smoked from the dents but remained otherwise unharmed.

“Stop wasting ammunition!” shouted Konstantin. 

He ducked behind a row of empty workstations. Villanelle took up a position a few meters to the left of Eve. She shoved Carolyn down and instructed her to pacify the drones; they hung in the air uselessly with their lights blinking dejectedly as if they were displeased with this particular turn of events. 

Eve crouched. Readied her weapon as the guards broke in. Glanced behind her to see that The Twelve’s interface briefly displayed a familiar address and profile that made her heart plummet. 

Apparently, The Twelve’s next target was Amber Peel.


	21. VIP

Jazz music wafted from Amber’s modern, airy, and spacious living space that was bathed in natural light. She’d left the door to the huge, private outdoor balcony open so that cigarette smoke could drift outside. Not a trace of it lingered. It didn’t curl upwards to the vaulted ceilings; it didn’t float above the hardwood floors to reach the bedrooms with their walk in closets and wraparound terrace; and it didn’t cloud the marble walls and countertops in the bathrooms.

Amber took one last, long drag. She sat facing the two bookshelves that flanked the flat screen television. Some motivational speaker was saying something that made her look up with mild interest. 

_Right now, in this moment, things are changing. Big changes, small changes. Climate changes and gear changes. With so much going on in the world, why wouldn’t you learn from it?_

The last of the cigarette was crushed in the golden ashtray, along with cinders of the half dozen cigarettes which had preceded it. Amber flipped through her work journal. Chewed on the cap end of her elegant fountain pen. Popped open her laptop and scrolled her company social media feed, switched to YouTube for some videos that might have made her crack a smile, then slammed her laptop shut in frustration. On and on the jazz music played, sultry female vocals suffused by piano, clean electric guitar, and melancholy strings. 

Although Amber was alone in her penthouse, the music could not quite drown out Aaron’s condescending tone or the way he sneered advice to her from beyond the grave. How to chop the vegetables, how to set the table; how much to drink and which cigarettes to smoke; who to befriend and how much money they were worth; where to buy clothes and which pieces flattered her figure the most. Amber arranged the appetizer plate to the tune of Aaron’s criticisms about how the peppers were sliced too thinly and the red wine hadn’t been cooled for long enough. 

She set the plate and the bottle of wine on the dining room table that was adjacent to the sound system. Then she promptly turned down the jazz to make room for her anxious thoughts about what she would wear; forty-five minutes of closet raiding later, she emerged from her bedroom wearing an emerald pencil dress, an intricate golden necklace, and had her tumbling blonde hair gently curled at the ends. Two glasses of wine were neatly downed by the time that Amber buzzed her guest in and heard sharp knocks upon the door. 

Shrugging off her trench coat, Helen stepped inside the penthouse with a genuinely impressed expression. Her eyes twinkled merrily behind her glasses.

“Well, seems you’ve done alright for yourself.”

“Glad you think so.”

“The view is nice too,” Helen added as she crossed over to the balcony.

Amber joined her. She leaned against the railing, let the breeze blow her hair back and felt the sun warm her face. 

“Thanks for coming here.” 

“I’ll take any chance to get out of MI6. But I’m not completely incognito, mind you.”

“No?”

“No. I have my Authorised Firearm Officers in the building and very probably outside your door as we speak.” Helen sighed. “Perk of the job, I suppose.”

“I appreciate the risk you took. I really do.”

“Now that’s a good place to start. Explain to me, what makes you such a VIP?” 

“You mean, aside from pioneering Pharaday UK after my brother’s tragic death and becoming the youngest female CEO in London?”

Helen grinned. “Yes, aside from all that, dear.”

“I can tell you exactly where Carolyn is. And where Eve and Villanelle are.”

“Excellent. But I still don’t understand why I had to come here for you to tell me that.”

Amber returned Helen to the cool penthouse interior. She sat at the dining table and munched on the appetizers while Amber produced the latest drone blueprints to lay on the ebony table. 

“The global marketplace is built on data collection, targeted communication strategies, machine learning, and artificial intelligence. When I signed my contract with Carolyn, my company was working on drones for primarily militarized and private security uses.”

Helen peered over the rim of her glasses. 

“Is that no longer a viable source of profit for you?”

“No, it totally is. It’s just that I want to expand the role of drones.” Amber tapped the blueprints. “I want drones to deliver cures to people. And medicine, especially with the state the NHS is in. I want drones to be part of more rescue operations than covert ones. And above all, I want drones to help people, not replace them.”

“It’s very admirable to use tech for good. What do you need me for?”

Amber grinned. “Connections and support, of course. Government backing gives me more credibility. But I couldn’t tell you any of this at MI6 because they’re always listening and it doesn’t look good if you’re seen to be directly influencing the demilitarization of an already signed government contract.”

“Right. Well. This all sounds-”

Shattering glass cut Helen off. She screamed as bullets ripped through the balcony window and rained into the living space. Amber hauled Helen out of the dining chair and shoved them both down the hallway leading to one of the smaller guest bedrooms. A pair of drones buoyed into the penthouse. Bullets sprayed the walls, pierced priceless paintings, shattered vases, desecrated the finest leather and wood and glass. The scent of smoke and bullet discharge filled the air. 

“Are they yours?” asked Helen.

Amber glanced behind her in terror just before she slammed the bedroom door shut.

“I don’t know!”

Helen frantically dug into her cardigan pocket for her iPhone. She shouted some furious commands at her security team, spittle flying, hair disheveled, glasses bucking almost entirely off her nose. Amber scrambled to push the heavy wardrobe in front of the splintering bedroom door. A few bullet holes had punched through the wood already. 

Every steady thump against the door made Amber flinch. She caught flashes of the drones battering themselves against it, over and over, unable to understand what or why or how this obstacle was in their flight path. Minutes grated against Amber’s skin as she perched on the edge of the bed. Helen paced back and forth, tangled her hands into her hair like it was a bird’s nest and she was tremendously distressed to suddenly find no little birds nesting there. 

Beyond the bedroom, another door was battered open. Shouts filled the penthouse. Gun fire. Screams. Sharp orders. More gunfire. The metallic, weighty drop of the drones as they fell to the glass-littered floor. Then the bedroom door burst open. AFOs piled in with their rifles raised, their protection charred and bulky and sweat stained.  

Helen shook visibly as she commended them. Amber was numb to their questions, to their inspection of her wellbeing, to the shock blanket that was draped around her shoulders at some point. When the bed sagged beside her, Amber turned to look at Helen.

“This is going to be a PR cock-up,” lamented Helen.

“I’ve learned that there’s no such thing as bad press though,” Amber countered. She’d never needed a cigarette so badly in all her life. “I, uh, I am sorry that this happened. But I do hope it doesn’t change your mind about our business partnership.”

Helen took her glasses off. “Tell me where they are.”

Amber relayed the coordinates to Helen, who mumbled them to the commanding AFO, who then promptly saluted and went off to carry out his orders.

“Well, that’s done it. Our rather large AFO assault force will be in Siberia before the first round of media vultures are done with me.”

“That’s great.” Amber wrapped the shock blanket tighter around herself. “They’re...they’re going there to help, right?”

“They’re going there to secure the location. And speaking of which, you really must look into getting some better security, dear.”

Helen patted Amber’s shoulder reassuringly as she got up to leave the room.

“Trust me, I’m on it,” muttered Amber.

* * *

The latest group of guards blew open the western door of The Twelve’s sanctum with an impact that Eve felt all the way to her back teeth. It was white light and painful noise and flying dust for a fraction of a second. Then she flattened herself back against cover. Pistol hot and tight in her grip. 

She clumsily reloaded with hands as heavy as lead. The rapid fire from assault rifles, the boom of Konstantin’s shotgun, and the precise, piercing shout of Villanelle’s pistol made Eve’s skull rattle with alarm. Her elbows and knees burned as she dragged herself to the next ring of workstations that hadn’t yet been peppered with bullets. The alarm continued to blare shrilly, unsettling the thin layer of sweat which coated Eve’s skin. 

Panting, she made her way up to Konstantin’s row. One entire side of his face was coated with the blood flowing from his damaged ear. He blinked the drops away to take aim over the workstation and floor two guards. Eve pulled him down just in time to avoid a hail of bullets that would have taken off the top of his snowy head. 

“You are like a Russian doll,” rasped Konstantin as his thick fingers fumbled to shove more shells into his shotgun. 

“Uh...thanks?”

“Many layers, many faces. Villanelle could put you up on a shelf until she figures them all out. Then I think she would be liking to take you down again to play with.”

Eve fired. A guard’s face caved in, the exit wound blasting through the back of his skull to shower bits of bone and brain onto the terrified guard behind him. Konstantin destroyed that guard’s chest and ducked back down before the body completely dropped to the slick floor. 

“Eve!” Villanelle’s shout made Eve snap her head in that direction. “Can you lock them out?”

“On it!”

Scurrying over debris and pools of blood, scrambling over Kenny’s body, Eve made her way to his workstation. The screen was filled with numbers and letters and lines that jumbled together. New lines appeared every few seconds; by the time that Eve reached the end of one, another flashed before her eyes and she felt her frustration boiling over. 

“I wish Kenny were here,” shouted Eve. 

“Then you probably shouldn’t have _murdered him!”_ Villanelle yelled back. 

Eve clicked and typed around until she exited to the main screen. She ducked as a bullet rammed into the wall behind her; dodged a follow up volley that would have split her head open. Screens cycled. Wires and tubing cascaded from Kenny’s desk to The Twelve; the electrical conduit connecting them sparked dangerously with each new mistake that Eve made. She prodded around for a reset button or an off switch. Swore when she didn’t find anything and wondered idly if The Twelve possibly had a troubleshooting department. 

Clicking frenziedly, Eve enlarged a screen that displayed a floor map of The Twelve’s headquarters. 

“There’s some sort of medical wing not too far from here!”

Eve yelped as a bullet fried the back of Kenny’s computer. She jerked away, fell to her knees, crawled forward until her hands hit the front of the front row workstations. Pistol poised, Eve peered around the corner to see Villanelle pressing one of her own pistols into Carolyn’s back, shoving her roughly down the row so that they were closer to the exploded door. Konstantin followed suit, laying down covering fire as he moved. 

Sweaty curls plastered to her forehead, Eve hurried to join them. The last few guards in the room were dealt with thanks to Villanelle’s gleeful trigger pulling. No sooner had she poked her head around the corner of the hallway than Carolyn attempted to wrench her drone controller out of her coat. Konstantin jabbed her in the ribs with his shotgun stock, knocking the air out of her in a thin, pained wheeze. 

“Keep your hands on top of your head and move,” he said roughly. 

The hallway was littered with assault rifles, corpses, and chunks of destroyed walls. Villanelle moved swiftly up ahead, checking corners and finishing off any bodies that still squirmed around her feet like worms. Bars of light cut through the smoky air. Eve coughed. Flinched at the harsh sound in the tense stillness. She called out directions to Villanelle, steering her as if they were attached by an invisible red string. 

A small room stocked with medical supplies was blocked by a heavy lock. Villanelle shoved Carolyn’s face into the eye scanner and held it there until they were begrudgingly allowed to pass. Konstantin barged in. Shelves of medicine and gauzes, along with surgical tools and their corresponding silver operating table, shone in the pale blue light. Eve drank the last of the water in her gear pack and looked on as Villanelle tended to Konstantin’s damaged ear. 

With a resounding sigh, Carolyn sat on the operating table. She looked at the drones irritably as they bobbed into the room. 

“Do they actually do something useful or what?” snapped Villanelle. 

“What is it that you would like them to do?” 

“Shoot some guards!”

“If I ordered them to do that, they’d slaughter us all. They’re only programmed to kill the individual targets that I assign or to kill everyone in their vicinity. I was told it’s a programming error,” Carolyn said dryly. 

“We can’t just sit here and wait to die.” Eve felt for a new ammunition clip on her belt. There wasn’t one. “Fuck!”

“What?” demanded Villanelle.

“I’m out.”

Villanelle groaned. She tossed Eve one of her pistols. “Be careful with it, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Konstantin stuffed as many medical supplies as he could into his and Eve’s gear packs. Carolyn watched them with an amused twinkle in her eye.

“I’m afraid this entire place is in lockdown. You won’t last for very long. There are more guards on their way as we speak.”

“Good.” Villanelle reloaded with a smirk. “You are going to be our big bargaining chip.”

“Am I? Marvellous.”

“Either they let us get out of here alive, or their leader dies.”

“The Twelve is still intact. That’s all that matters, Oksana.”

“We will shut it off.”

“You don’t know how.”

“We’ll find someone who does,” Eve said. 

“Ah. Who did you have in mind?”

“Amber.”

“Best of luck with that. She is quite dead by now, Eve, I assure you.”

Eve felt tremors under her skin. She pushed past the icy trickle of fear dripping into her stomach. 

“You’re dead too, Carolyn. You just haven’t accepted it yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to give you lovely readers a notice about the next few chapters. And trust me, by the end of Chapter 22, you will most definitely be thankful for this notice!
> 
> After Chapter 22, Chapters 23 and 24 will be published as a pair. What this means is that you’ll have to wait a bit longer for the conclusion to come together. However, I am doing this out of respect for the time and energy that you folks have kindly been investing into this story. I don’t want you to be left agonizing and outraged until things to wrap up! It would truly cheapen the ending. 
> 
> So along those lines, the best way to finish the concluding segment is to do it all at once in order for you to experience the full effect. To come to your own conclusions with all the cards finally on the table. Thank you very much for your interest and patience, I deeply appreciate it!


	22. Killswitch

Villanelle inhaled and leveled her pistol carefully. She picked out a guard in her sights. Then she lined up the rest of the group clustered down the outstretched corridor, one at a time. Eight hostiles, twelve rounds in her magazine, six magazines left: Villanelle knew she could take down every target, first shot.

She held her breath, forefinger resting on the trigger. Just a touch.

Behind her, Eve was crouched and shadowed by the wall that she pressed her right shoulder against. Konstantin loomed in the dark that spilled over Villanelle’s shoulders and crept up Carolyn’s ankles; she’d stayed remarkably quiet since the medical room, although the shotgun held at the back of her skull was probably having a positive influence on her current behaviour.

They’d reached two floors above The Twelve’s sanctum, encountering little resistance along the way. Villanelle felt the sour pull of dread low in her stomach as she went first, muscles screaming with the tension of being alert. Most of the rooms were empty now. A few workers slammed doors and ran away screaming at the sight of her. Otherwise, an eerie gloom suffused the interlaced hallways, walkways, and corridors plowing through the sprawling underground.

Until now.

This cluster of eight guards was blocking a cozy lounge and the ascending staircase after it. Heavy pipes lined the walls, their long shadows thrown onto the concrete floor as a broken light flickered ahead. Villanelle understood that she had to time her shots so that her fire aligned with the cloak of darkness by the time bullets drilled into the bodies. Her chest ached. Her head pounded. She set her jaw stubbornly. The guards shifted positions, their nervous Russian drifting to her ears.

Villanelle exhaled and momentarily relaxed her grip on the pistol, sliding her forefinger in front of the trigger guard.

“You cannot make a shot from this far away using a pistol,” Konstantin chided in a whisper.

Scowling, Villanelle aimed down the sights again. “I have not forgotten the basics.”

“Then stop this! We must get closer.”

“They will kill us,” Villanelle whispered back furiously. “We can surprise them from here.”

Konstantin shook his head. “If you miss, they will kill us anyway. And you _will_ miss. They are too far.”

Villanelle took a fresh breath to steady her nerves.

The she heard it. The _drip, drip, drip,_ dripping of a nearby pipe. She caught traces of a puddle shimmering in the flickering light, followed the pipe’s path and she saw that it reached all the way into the lounge. Reluctant to move, she targeted each guard several times, but didn't squeeze the trigger. She wanted to more than she could have imagined. It wasn't the hard-drilled trained response of an assassin, but a helpless, impotent anger whose origin she couldn't begin to identify.

As far as Villanelle saw, the pipes had no visible structural flaws. But they were conjoined by metal rings every few meters that had screws loosened by the consistent freezing, unfreezing, and refreezing of the environmental temperature adjustment. She glanced at the spooky intersection at the lounge, its walls surfaced with sparking panels and electrical conduits. Then she aimed at the metal ring closest to the guards and fired.

Water burst forth from the pipe. The guards yelled. Villanelle fired again. Screws panged and pinged off the parallel wall. More water showered the floor. It steadily drenched Villanelle, Eve, Konstantin, and Carolyn. The guards couldn’t get a clear view of them thanks to the spray. Villanelle grinned as she fired the last of the metal ring away and a massive stream of water exploded forth from the pipe.

It knocked down the group of guards; before they could recover, Villanelle raced down the hall. She closed the distance with predatory grace, raised her pistol now that she was in range, and finished the guards off with four bullets to spare in her magazine. By the time that Eve, Konstantin, and Carolyn caught up, the machine voice of rotors and pumps flooded the corridor.

A crisp surface had already gathered on the surface of the spilled water. Villanelle’s breath hung like a ghost in the chilled air as she watched the pumps redirect the flow to another room. The steady gysering from the shattered pipe slowed down to a trickle, then returned to its initial _drip, drip, drip._ Eve’s hair was soaked. Carolyn shivered. Konstantin wrung out the cover flap of his gear pack in order to avoid drenching the medical supplies within. The drones presided over them silently but seemed to bob through the air with more of a bouncy flair.

The next level they ascended to was spread out between two floors. Their wet footsteps squeaked from room to room. Villanelle poked around rusty corners with her heart in her mouth. Metal tables and discarded sheeting. Scraps of thick wooden paneling. Remains of surpassed technology and junk spread out over the floor. Too many points of entry, too much ground to cover between them. But relief quickly flooded Villanelle’s entire body when she finally announced the all clear.

Villanelle eyed Eve from across the room. She leaned against a half-functioning workstation. Shoulders dropped. Arms crossed. Villanelle could hear her upset breaths in the quiet. Past the doorway, Konstantin was standing over Carolyn, who sat cross legged between a metal table and piles of coiled tubes. The muzzle of his shotgun drifted tantalizingly close to Carolyn’s head. Villanelle checked her magazine, then stuffed the pistol back in its shoulder holster. She swaggered over to Carolyn.

“Your son is dead. I expected more of a...oh, I don’t know. More of a reaction in total, I guess.”

“We all grieve differently.”

Konstantin pried Carolyn’s head up with the shotgun so that she met his cold eyes.

“I am grieving too, Carolyn.”

Villanelle clenched his upper arm, her tone purposefully light. “Konstantin. I can understand how you feel. But not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Ummm. Because I said so?”

Konstantin glowered at her. “Villanelle-”

Crunching footsteps drew closer. Eve approached Carolyn with a spark in her eyes.

“It’s you!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You smell like apricot jam!”

Carolyn sniffed herself. “Why Eve, you’re quite right. I do believe it’s my newest skin cream.”

“Why do you want to be smelling like fruit?” demanded Villanelle. “When I want to smell nice, I go for sensual and intriguing, not like I have been sitting on a grocery shelf!”

“How much does it cost?” Eve asked. “It can’t be as expensive as your pig placenta cream. I mean, you didn’t pay me enough to get that anyway and-”

Konstantin cleared his throat.

“I truly can’t remember the price right now, Eve. But perhaps we can work something out once we get to the surface?”

Konstantin cleared his throat again.

“Sure Carolyn! I just want to make sure I smell nice when I fuck Villanelle over your corpse, that’s all.”

Villanelle stared at Eve while she walked into another room. She felt herself blushing, actually blushing at the thought and tried to suppress a giggle in front of Konstantin.

“I do not want to know. Truly.” Konstantin primed his shotgun. “Enough talking.”

“No! Stop!” Villanelle smacked his hand away from the trigger. “I am tired. You are tired. Let us rest for a bit. Okay?”

“No need.”

Villanelle stepped firmly in front of him when he tried to shoulder past her. “We are resting until later. And if you do not listen to me, I will blow your knees out.”

Time was an elusive concept underground. Without any windows or airflows, it was impossible to tell how much of it had passed. But Villanelle did feel it pass like sand through a sieve, felt it move as it seared through her veins. She injected herself with atropine only when her arms quivered with tightness, when her mind was awash with a lake of fire, and when she couldn’t make a fist without her hand stiffening from the pain.

Konstantin was snoring over in the next room. Eve had slouched in a torn plush office chair, half-dried curls dangling like a curtain over her face. Carolyn came over to stand beside Villanelle while she packed the atropine kit away. She spoke quietly. Villanelle did not look at her.

“I know how much you value independence of choice and personal destiny. Please, listen to me: I can help you save yourself.”

“Sleep or don’t, I could not care less. Only shut up.”

Carolyn glanced over at Eve. “Is she really worth that much to you?”

“If you do not shut up right now, I will kill you in the face.”

“Oksana...She stabbed you.”

“She-she found me.”

“And then she stabbed you.”

“We are over that. Eve is here.”

“Right now, yes. But what about after? How do you know that she will stay with you, Oksana?”

Villanelle’s hands stilled.

“When this is over…” Carolyn raised her shoulders in a half-shrug. “Well, I have put you both through so much, haven’t I? If I were Eve, I would want out after this adventure. And if I were you, I wouldn’t trust her to do anything else.”

Later, Villanelle was vaguely aware of being slumped against the wall in a position that numbed one of her hands. Then there were sounds. Somewhere beyond the walls, ticking the edges of her consciousness, trickling through the cracks and holes and spaces in between her throbbing, disorienting thoughts.

Movement. Low voices. Movement and low voices.

Villanelle’s eyes flew open. She felt the entire oppressive weight of Siberia pressing down on her. Kilometers upon kilometers of plunging snow and ice bearing down on whining, whirring machinery that kept these rooms stable, secure, climate controlled, and supplied with power. Villanelle swayed to her feet. Felt the floor tremble. She roused Eve and Konstantin.

“What’s going on?” Eve mumbled.

“An avalanche?” suggested Konstantin.

Villanelle shook her head. “I’m not sure-”

A second jolt shook the floor, strong enough to make dust float down from the ceiling. The next shudder was accompanied by a distant and powerful explosion. The lights faded momentarily, then returned to full illumination. Villanelle drew her pistol. She grabbed Carolyn, shuffled her up ahead into the adjacent room, and linked her earpiece with Eve’s.

“Spread out.”

Eve and Konstantin arranged themselves in the other rooms so that the three of them together formed a triangle that covered the main reception area. Looking strikingly ghostly in the dismal light, ASOs were suddenly emerging from the blown open thick door at the end of the hall, keeping close to the walls with their weapons raised.

“This is a hostage situation,” Carolyn called out abruptly.

One ASO pivoted, rifle pointing towards the direction of Carolyn’s voice. The rest shuffled inside and fanned out, their heavy boots striking the floor and their communications crackling in the charged air.

The next few moments felt prolonged into forever.

An ASO tossed a grenade into one of the storage rooms. Villanelle cried out. Footsteps scuffled. Then a deafening, blinding explosion that rocked the floor Villanelle was on even if she was outside the zone of impact. She jerked Carolyn with her into another room. Ringing ears. Sweaty palms. Quick breaths. Her mind caving in.

Still set on slow motion, the immediate world came in and out of focus. Villanelle registered the blinking equipment in the room, screens filled with scrolling data, an overturned metal table, the floor strewn with glass and sharp debris. She targeted the first ASO she came upon, a clean head shot, and squeezed the trigger. He dropped, and for a moment his comrades stared at the body, unsure of what had happened.

Villanelle recognized the sound of her twin pistol firing from across the room, and a few more ASOs crumpled to the ground with sizeable bloody exit wounds blossoming their chests. Konstantin regrouped with Eve and Villanelle to the tune of his shotgun plastering the ASOs to the opposite wall with wet, sloppy impressions being left behind after they’d fallen.

“More will be here soon,” growled Konstantin. “What is our plan?”

“Good question. Kill Commander?” Villanelle prodded Eve when she didn’t look up from the limb-strewn ground. “What’s the plan?”

Eve glanced at the drones. “Can you tell those things to target these assholes?”

“I’m afraid not. Assassination targets are assigned via biometrics, one at a time.”

“That’s-that’s fantastic,” muttered Eve. She ran a hand through her messy hair.

“However, I can set the drones to their default orders. But that would mean making ourselves targets as well.”

More shouts drifted to Villanelle’s ears. She raised her pistol.

“There’s no time for a better option! Do it!”

Carolyn produced her drone controller. “Kenny would just laugh at the sight of me functioning as some sort of human killswitch…”

The silver drones floated into formation. Some fired rapidly at the ASOs that spilled from the doorway, piling their bodies neatly on the threshold for their comrades to stumble over. Other drones fired at Konstantin as he fled back into cover, or at Eve as she overturned a metal table and crouched behind it for cover. Villanelle followed her example and flipped another metal table to cover the front doorway of this room.

But the doorway on the right left Villanelle exposed, as did the one on the left, which lead to the room that looped around to Eve’s location. Villanelle pushed two filing cabinets to seal off the right doorway, sweating and swearing in Russian and glaring at Carolyn all the while. The gunfire raging just beyond their room intensified. The thudding of bodies added a rhythm to the release of each magazine that Villanelle ejected from her pistol. Smoking bullets clattered to the floor.

Villanelle swiftly positioned herself behind the metal table. She fired three times, each bullet finding its mark. A kill tally and an ammunition tally ran parallel to each other in Villanelle’s speeding mind; she felt as if she was on a runaway train that hadn’t yet jumped the tracks, but was steadily careening towards the crossroads that would throw it off course. Villanelle ducked just as a drone shot at her. Its single eye seemed to challenge her with its angry red gleam; it sought her out with a nerve shattering whine.

Then another drone appeared. Its companion was shot down by an ASO in a shower of sparks and smoke, but was immediately replaced by yet another drone that added its own volley of fire in Villanelle’s direction. Carolyn coolly observed her being pinned down. Hands clasped neatly in front of her, head tilted at a curious angle, wry amusement flickering in her eyes. She even arced a delicate eyebrow when Villanelle managed to destroy one drone with a well placed shot that speared through its insolent eye.

In retaliation, the other drone fired a relentless stream of bullets that burst through the metal table. Villanelle sidestepped into the cover of the nearby wall. She dragged Carolyn into the next room. Toppled a workstation in her haste and caught the drone just as it was entering; it flinched from the impact, dipped low momentarily, and was shattered by Villanelle’s timely bullet fired around the corner. Upon impact, Villanelle felt her energy drain. She slid down the wall and rested on the floor.

She faced the doorway that offered entry to Eve’s location. She heard gunfire. Hastily shouted orders that were cut off by yelps of pain, followed by Konstantin’s roaring shotgun or Eve’s blasting pistol. The shimmering wail of the drone’s rapid fire and the muffled burst of grenades as they blackened the floors and walls and sent deadly shrapnel flying through the smoky air. Eve’s harsh breathing low in her ear. Crawling on her hands and knees, Villanelle craned her neck to get Eve in her sights. She saw flashes as Eve fired, almost felt the screaming tautness in her posture. Then Konstantin limped over time join Eve behind her cover, leaking blood from his left ankle. He sank down beside Eve, kept shooting and shooting until he had to gasp at his bandolier for more shotgun shells.

Villanelle slammed a fresh magazine into her pistol and primed herself to fire. She synchronized her shots with Eve’s and Konstantin’s, quietly exalted at the sight of several ASOs dropping to the ground. Still, more came from the wreckage of the main door. Now the drones deviously changed their formation and firing pattern. Rounds suddenly smacked in all around the makeshift barricade that Eve had set up. Villanelle ran on instinct, feeling nothing but the gentle curve of the burning trigger and the firm jolt of her pistol as she fired and fired and fired and then was rewarded with spurts of blood from the head or the throat of an ASO.

Bullets whizzed over Villanelle’s head. The drones kept firing. The ASOs kept firing, slotting shots in between the pauses Konstantin and Eve took to reload. For one sweet moment, it seemed like there was enough ammo to keep every weapon rocking for an hour straight until the barrels melted and the weapons jammed and they were all deaf and every body in between them and the exit was chopped down with lead. Then came a flurry of slick little snaps and the inevitable staccato sound that rattled in Villanelle’s head like an empty can of paint.

That first burst hit the barricade and shattered metal a few inches from Eve’s head. Konstantin dove for the floor and promptly proceeded to crawl to the other end of the barricade as quickly as his wounded leg would allow. Eve covered him, her lips twisted into a beatific expression. The sight of Konstantin’s blood trail made Villanelle nauseated. Set her teeth on edge. Made her grip the pistol with enough force to hear her knuckles _pop_ even above the violent din. The most clear and certain and purposeful thing for Villanelle to do was to keep firing until she’d mowed down the newest row of ASOs that dared to approach.

But mortal danger was a funny thing. As she huddled up to the barricade, her shoulder smacking hard into its metal surface, she felt bone-deep certainty that she was going to die. Yet she wasn’t terrified. And she wasn’t worried about more guards or ASOs or drones. She was much more preoccupied by a calming memory that she’d fallen into: a warm afternoon in Paris filled her mind, along with the pleasant scents of Eve’s skin, and then the invigorating smell of fire. Villanelle smiled as a detached sense of curiosity prevailed.

Keeping her back to cover, Villanelle counted the rounds left in her magazine. She closed her eyes. Soaked in the chaos rising around her. Then with an apricot tinged jolt, Villanelle was forced to look at a very, very pale Carolyn that had crawled beside her.

“Looks like you and Eve won’t make it,” she said softly. “I’m the only one who can control the drones.”

“Good for you.”

Carolyn peered at Villanelle. “Be reasonable. Listen to me.”

The barricade shook. Chunks flew off as the hail of bullets continued. Villanelle recounted her ammunition rounds.

“Oksana-”

“Shut up,” Villanelle snarled.

She aimed over the barricade. Banged out only six rounds before the trigger clicked. Choking back a desperate, hysterical sob, Villanelle set her pistol down and reached for her knife instead.

“You are so special, Oksana,” whispered Carolyn urgently. “You don’t have to die here. Please, let me stop the drones from targeting you.”

Villanelle looked over at an oblivious Eve; she was trying to cover the corner of the barricade currently being assaulted by drones. She missed. A lot. On Carolyn’s other side, Konstantin slowly drew nearer.

“What about Eve?”

“Ah. That’s so very loyal of you. But does Eve return the favour?”

Villanelle’s heart plummeted. Tremors raced up and down her spine, entwined around her sore arms like cutting barbed wire. She was tempted to sink into a delicious numb fatigue as the world receded.

“Oksana, it’s not too late to renounce Eve. I am still willing to help you.”

“Then make the drones target you,” said Villanelle.

What little colour there was left in Carolyn’s face drained away completely. She stiffened.

“What?”

Konstantin pressed the shotgun barrel to Carolyn’s head.

“Do it.”

Carolyn fumbled for the drone controller. Villanelle saw that her fingers shook as they pressed buttons in sequence, as Konstantin held one of Carolyn’s hands to the biometric reader, as the display flashed in confirmation, as Carolyn finally let the controller drop into her lap.

“There, that should do it.” Carolyn said, trying for a flippant tone although her voice shook badly. “You are free to walk away, Oksana. See? Being loyal to yourself works wonders.”

Villanelle’s fingers closed around the hard handle of her knife.

“You are right, Carolyn. My first loyalty is to myself.”

Villanelle rammed the blade into Carolyn’s right eye. She screamed. Blood streamed down her twisted face. Villanelle turned the knife, made a scooping motion, and popped Carolyn’s eye out of its soft, glistening socket. The volume of Carolyn’s agony made Eve look over. A flash of triumph crossed her face; Villanelle caught it with a joyous shiver trickling down her spine.

Keeping her head down low, Eve reached Carolyn. Took the gory knife from Villanelle’s bloodstained hands. Yanked Carolyn’s tongue out of her gaping mouth and sliced it off in one fluid motion. It fell to the floor, twitched like a damaged, wet slug.

Konstantin grimly propped Carolyn up against the barricade. Amidst the gunfire, he managed to drag her body above cover and pin her there. Her screams were guttural now. Fountains of crimson poured from her mouth. Her torso was exposed and her remaining eye widened as the drones converged.

They fired.

After a few seconds, their shots synchronized; there was a strangely hypnotic feel to the sound of bullets shredding through Carolyn. The blood and the smoke and the cracking was like an incantation, a rhythm and melody that left Villanelle almost in a trance.

There wasn’t much left of Carolyn’s chest. Or her head. Her clothes smoked, holes ripped in flesh and fabric alike. But the drones kept firing.

Konstantin doubled over, coughing, as he kept Carolyn upright. Blood sprayed over him. Carolyn’s screams whittled away into thin air. At the sight of her decimated body, the remaining ASOs fled into the perimeter corridors. Konstantin ran after them, his face still flushed with berserk rage, while Eve and Villanelle took care of the remaining drones.

A moment of reprieve held its breath. The stench of battle hung heavy in the air. Rippling aftershocks of hurt and fear and anger and terror unfurled alongside columns of dust. Beyond the curtain of vapour, Eve lurched to her feet. Her curls tumbled as she shook her head to free her line of sight. The pistol was loose in her hand.

There was a twitch in Villanelle’s heart, a hitch in her breathing when Eve looked at her. But not really, not fully _at her;_ Eve’s eyes were glazed, her gaze directed just past Villanelle, as if she could be rejected to the outskirts of Eve’s vision, as if Eve could look right past her without reacting. Eve stood still. Her posture slumped, like someone had cut her puppet strings and now she didn’t know how to move anymore.

Yet she moved in Villanelle’s direction. Her feet tripped on corpse; she paid it no mind and kept going. Villanelle caught a moment then, during the strained seconds that Eve mistook her for an anchor of safety and rest, where Eve let herself be _vulnerable._ Like an outer layer had peeled away, or a protective shell had cracked, or a beast had rolled over onto its back and carelessly left its soft spot exposed.

Eve came close to Villanelle. Mere breaths of space were between them. Eve looked like she could sigh into the side of Villanelle’s neck. Melt against her chest. Unwind at the warm feel of their bodies pressed together. Eve finally looked into Villanelle’s voice, a tide of contrition rising in her tired eyes; her lips sealed, but silently begging to close that space between them.

And then, with a sensation free falling, Villanelle stabbed Eve.


	23. I Won't Be Long, Baby

There was a staggering amount of blood.

Eve lurched backwards with Villanelle’s knife buried in her gut. She went with Eve, keeping her reddened hands on it, firmly pushing Eve back, back, back, until her legs couldn’t keep her standing anymore. She fell heavily. Her vision was hazed with red and black and flashes of white; hot blood wetting her clothes and congealing around the blade and desperately pumping within her soft, soft insides and carelessly slipping and sliding down her left leg; the toughness of the barricade smashed against her shoulders as she crawled and convulsed and somehow slid herself into an upright position that only spread more blood around her hips and pooled, sticky and soaking and too much, too fast, all around her.

And she hadn’t even pulled the knife out.

Thin streams of air made it into her lungs. Then having to heave breaths past the sleek blade made Eve moan in agony. Raspy gasps moved around the impaled knife, hard gasps mostly choked off from the depth of the pain. Wheezing with each expansion of her chest, these gasps contained words whose meaning was momentarily lost to Eve. Words of sorrow and apology and devotion declared; phrases of judgement and condemnation and fury; half-hearted explanations and appeals and cries of despair; all were hurtling out of control in her constricted, pulsing, assaulted mind.

Eve’s body rebelled against her attempts to keep it from succumbing to a state of total shock. Jerking and shivering, her body was aware of its own erasure, as acutely as Eve was aware of her loss of ownership over the one and only thing that she felt sure she owned. Now it twitched and bled and hurt and numbed and ripped without her consent, overpowered by the will and action of another person.

A person who made her powerful choices, just as Eve had made hers, and now this knife bonded them.

Eve couldn’t bear to pull it out yet. Maybe, beneath all the carnage, she didn’t even want to tear it out of herself. Maybe she truly yearned for the swiftness with which it would destroy her and leave no trace behind. Villanelle’s hands were still grasping the knife’s handle; this was the closest they had ever been except for sex, and it felt like them at their most intimate, although it was also, quite shatteringly, the farthest they had ever been from each other.

As she met hazel eyes, an uneasy, fluttering feeling filled Eve, like there were caged birds beating their wings in her chest. Villanelle’s eyes were vacant.

The blood kept leaking from the stab wound like a poorly kept secret, like proof that Eve would never be as clean as she pretended to be. Muscle and bone and racing breath and spirit splattered from the point of contact; Eve’s hands shook as she tried to fight against Villanelle’s hysterical strength bearing down on her. Eve felt an urge to run-not away from Villanelle, but towards her. Eve needed her not to leave. And she also needed, more than anything, for Villanelle, this person who had just _stabbed_ her, to come _closer,_ to come to _her._

Eve pushed the knife in deeper.

Startled, Villanelle eased forward. Panting. Trembling. Wide eyed. Her eyes were reflected in the knife as she glanced down, trying to keep the cut even. Distant sounds of gunfire disrupted the cloak of calm that had fallen around the barricade.

Eve had witnessed enough crime scenes and seen plenty of photos of them to know that love could not be built from a crime scene. There were no sirens here, no yellow caution tape to keep people away, no photographs and inspections and ugly comments; just the purity of two women invading each other’s personal space and coming to terms over the punctuation of cold steel. With her guts mushing past the blade, Eve dissected Villanelle’s choice to stab her and came up only with this:

It was an expression of violence wrapped in love, just as it was an expression of love trapped in violence.

The gunfire came closer; Konstantin shuffled into view, discharging his shotgun at a pair of guards that had trailed him to the reception area. He turned to face the barricade with some cynical greeting on his lips. But then he saw the blood and a shocked expression wrinkled his face.

“Villanelle...what have you done?”

She finally let go of the knife. Slowly stepped away. Let Konstantin drop to one knee and place a hand onto Eve’s contracting abdomen. The shouts of leftover ASOs and were now joined by more bewildered guards who were moments away from breaching the perimeter.

“I will take care of Eve,” Konstantin said gruffly. “Go deal with them!”

Villanelle picked up the pistol that had fallen from Eve’s numb fingers. Its entire left side was blood soaked; a pattern of crimson streaked all over the ivory and the gold and the rosewood. Eve watched her move past the barricade, counted her red footprints on the ground as she walked away. As she _left._ Konstantin’s big, warm hands pressed a gauze around the knife wound, mopping up as much blood as he could manage. Eve screwed her eyes shut.

“Can you move?” he asked.

“N-not far,” Eve managed to grit out.

Smiling grimly, Konstantin looped his arm around Eve’s shoulders.

“I will help you to stand, then we see how far we go.”

Together with their leaking wounds, they hobbled into a nearby smaller room. Eve tried to avoid putting weight on her left side. Thanks to Konstantin’s support, she was able to limp her way onto a squeaky office chair. He lifted her feet up on two haphazardly stacked cardboard boxes and looked at her with concern.

“The knife, I am going to have to take it out to treat your wound.”

Eve tried for a chuckle that dissolved into a pained whine before it could make it past her pale lips.

“I-I’m the older one...I would have d-died before Villanelle anyway.”

Konstantin glared at her, then proceeded to ransack his gear pack for alcohol, gauzes, and long lengths of bandages.

“There will be a vicious scar,” he warned.

Eve nodded once, curtly. She braced herself against the armrests.

“Where’s my g-gear pack?”

“There are enough supplies here.”

“Bring...it to m-me.”

Konstantin’s eyebrows shot up. “Delaying it will only make it worse, you know.”

He got Eve the damn gear pack anyway. Tossed it at her feet. Pried a thick wad of bandages into her mouth and ordered her to bite down on hard. Eve felt her temples pounding. Every drop of sweat that gathered on her face seemed to scald her skin. She was light headed. Her throat was dry. She was suspended halfway between occupying her body and simply floating out of it to vanish in this cramped, small room that reeked of inflamed metal and wet, mineral blood.

If she had the will left in her body, Eve would have reeled from Konstantin’s firm touch upon her shoulder. He tried to exude an air of calm and professionalism, but his eyes hadn’t lost their cold, troubled sheen.

“Try to not move a lot.”

“G-get on with it!”

Konstantin gripped the knife and pulled it out in one precise and fluid movement.

Blinded by pain, Eve heard herself screaming. Raw and low and long and loud and shattering the core of her. The wound burned white hot, throbbed rivers of blood down the seat of the chair. And the blood just kept flowing, splashing onto the floor. Konstantin frantically pressed his full weight down onto the wound, his hands curtained by gauze. Then he dumped a copious amount of alcohol over the laceration.

Eve retched. Screamed over and over and over until a strained yet soft voice cut through her wretched cacophony.

“I can hear you, Eve.”

Villanelle’s voice nestled low in Eve’s ear.

“I know exactly what you are going through. I can understand how you feel. This is how you made _me_ feel.”

Eve’s hips bucked as Konstantin wiped the wound. He pressed her chest down firmly, tried to keep her still while the blood gushed over them both.

“Sometimes you don’t know what you’re going to do until you do it,” Villanelle continued dreamily.

Rogue fragments of unbearable memory leaked out of Eve’s mind in its weakened state. The cracking of gunfire and the scuffle of feet, the panicked shouting that was not Villanelle’s and then harsh breathing that was unmistakably hers, all swirled in Eve’s head. She belonged to the warm timbre of Villanelle’s voice as it vibrated within her skull: to her cadence which somehow encapsulated mockery and cruelty and affection all at once, clashing together in a tone that still managed to set Eve’s veins on fire.

Villanelle’s words dripped honey onto Eve’s stab wound even as it refused to quench itself.

“I am thinking that it may have been easier for us to get matching tattoos. I would look sexy with a tattoo, don’t you think? Oh, hold on-”

Eve grimaced at the sound of gunshots. Konstantin was hurriedly still trying to staunch the blood.

“I am low on ammunition,” Villanelle said calmly, “and you have the knife. Does that make you worried, Eve?”

She sucked a breath in through her teeth. Her pulse quickened. Her eyes rolled from the waves of pain that roiled through her.

“Anyway, you should not be worrying about me. Don’t die too quickly, okay? I want to see the end. When it’s you, I think I will like it more than anything.”

The earpiece pinged once and then fell silent. Konstantin hoisted the gear pack onto a cardboard box so that he could hunt for more rolls of bandages. Eve tried not to look at her wound. Slow-speaking and awash in her own blood, she said:

“K-Konstantin, stop.”

His eyes flicked to hers while his hands moved restlessly.

“I-I mean it,” Eve insisted. “Stop. N-now.”

Quickly, he wrapped around the first layer of bandages just above her hips; they were instantly stained so he started wrapping another layer. He’d finished tying it too, when Eve mustered the resolve to grab his wrist.

“Give me...the p-pills.”

Konstantin froze. His fingers lingered on a strip of bandage that he was preparing to tear with his teeth. A dark expression that Eve couldn’t catch flickered across his face. He shook his head. But Eve gripped his wrist more tightly.

“P-please, Konstantin. Please.”

Faced with her stubborn gaze and her body rapidly slipping into shock, Konstantin relented with a huff. He tore Eve’s equipment back open, shoved his hand inside, and ransacked it until he found the pill bottle. With shaking fingers, Eve opened it and released the three little pills into the palm of her blood-slicked hand. Konstantin watched her silently. The earpiece was dead. A cold, endless void had crushed Eve’s lungs and eviscerated her chest so that now she fell into it head first. She swallowed the pills at once.

They tasted bland, smooth, innocuous. Dragging her eyes up to the grimy ceiling, Eve recalled the psychology of it: knew that the part of the brain responsible for separating the past from the present-the hippocampus-became dysfunctional in the aftermath of trauma. Consequently, the brain re-entered fight, flight or freeze every time it was reminded of the horrific experience through memory. The past bled into the present, again and again and again. And unlike other memories that could be safely stored away by the hippocampus, traumatic memories stayed alive. They lay in wait, and then moved through synapses and veins and touches and thoughts and feelings like lightning.

Some perfect, twinging, craving ache settled firmly into Eve’s very bones. She didn’t care for the stab wound, suddenly, because it was a choice that another person had made. Even if she felt that action piercing her soul, she felt in her heart that the pills were a choice that offered fulfillment. Already, an airy and almost paralyzingly relaxing sensation was creeping throughout her body. A forced acceptance that evoked a crooked smile, one that Konstantin pretended not to see. Eve could hear how her breathing slowed, how her heart no longer threw itself against her rib cage in a doomed effort to be freed.

Eve closed her wet eyes. It was just like falling asleep.

* * *

There was a fear inside of Villanelle that came true because of Eve.

It was the fear of performance; that Eve would discover everything about Villanelle, especially her intimate life, was an act. Her lived experiences were built on memories of sharp pain, blurred vision, blackout, a ruthless knife plunged into her skin. Yet she carried on from day to day without ever fracturing the fantasy.

She learned from books and films and television what kind of questions to ask, what voices to use, what food to eat and clothes to wear, what sounds she should make so that her feelings correlated with her mannerisms, and most acutely, how women’s faces were supposed to look when they were enjoying physical touch. She gravitated to mirrors like they were reality checkpoints, adjusting some makeup here or tucking strands of hair behind her ears there, testing different languages and expressions and movements depending on the intensity of emotions brewing in her veins.

The act of becoming herself was a dangerous one since Eve had entered into her life and eviscerated every boundary. The act of becoming someone else was much more comfortable, a performance that Eve’s piercing eyes could not see. Yet it was still thrilling to wonder if Eve had discerned that the very thing which would repulse her, the mask, was also the very thing that made Villanelle particularly good at performing intimacy. She could become anyone, really, but was so deeply attuned to Eve that she could figure out exactly what she wanted from her, and then she could _become_ Eve, like magic.

Villanelle studied and practiced and tested and found that she could pick up on signs invisible to others: every slight adjustment in body language, every double take, every stolen glance, every scent that then got catalogued into a database in her mind that was always weighing whether or not it was time to run. Yet it was not a mechanical process; the intense emotions accompanying Villanelle’s performance made her want to peel off her skin like the suit it was and simply walk out of herself without looking back.

But there was also a hope inside of Villanelle that came true because of Eve.

It kept her in pursuit. It propelled her into combat and motion, weaving from room to room; shooting lights to douse herself in the darkness which gave her the edge she needed to direct death in between flashes of light and shadow. Guards and ASOs dropped with each measured shot. The screamed orders to one another, a flustered mix of panicked Russian and impeccably accented British English, intertwined into cries of terror. They only caught blurs of Villanelle, fragments of gunmetal and distortions of her face, slashed by shrapnel and smeared with dirt, sweat, and drying blood.

Most of the ASOs were dead in this corridor. The guards who were left shakily peered into each dark corner and behind every door left ajar; they were met with the hot barrel of Villanelle’s pistol shoved into their mouths or pressed hard against their foreheads. She moved like an apparition pulled straight from their nightmares, flashes of her wild eyes lit up by the keenness of her trigger pulls. The surviving ASO was spared a bullet in the brain only because Villanelle finally ran out of ammunition. She silently stepped back into the shadows. Let her pistol clunk loudly to the floor, startling the ASO into firing shots in the dark.

As he drew deeper into the room, Villanelle fed off his sharp, panic-stricken breaths. She flexed her hands. Let him drift past her. Then came up behind him and snapped his neck. He tumbled silently at her feet, his assault rifle loosened from his clutches. Villanelle contemplated using it. She examined its cartridge chamber, hefted it, but ultimately decided that it was too heavy and robust and unwieldy to use with any accuracy. And so, unarmed and driven by the incessant ticking clock in her head, Villanelle prowled back down the corridor that returned to the reception area.

A squad of guards was engaged in a firefight with the last of the ASOs off an adjacent hallway. The smell of burned metal made Villanelle’s nostrils flare. She winced at the sound of their weapons, like a chattering chorus of metallic insects was swarming around her head. Sticking close to the wall, Villanelle rounded a corner sharply and smacked into a guard that had been sprinting towards the firefight. She pivoted to recovery and dealt a sharp blow to his neck that shattered it so totally that she could practically feel his spinal fluid seeping into his uniform.

The blast of a grenade behind Villanelle warped the air itself with a thundering shockwave. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see puffs of blood clouds and smashed chairs careening down the hallway, followed by a lazily trailing cloud of smoke. Villanelle broke into a run. She kept going, her heart leaping in her chest as she recognized the abstract decor and bullet-ridden walls of places she had already passed. Shattered glass crunched beneath her feet. Sparking cables, overturned desks, smashed heads and stray bullet casings all seemed to scramble over themselves to get out of her way.

By the time she’d reached the still-smoldering barricade in the reception area, Villanelle’s protective layer was soaked through with sweat. Even her hair, which she’d tied into a tight braid, hung heavy from her exertion. She carefully picked her way around the crater the ASOs grenade had left on the floor and came behind the barricade. The wood there had deepened several shades due to the amount of blood that Eve lost; Villanelle peered at the outline of where her legs and palms had been, tracing the crusting blood there delicately with her trembling fingers.

She followed the long streaks of blood that eventually guided her into a smaller room. Konstantin sat on some stacked cardboard boxes across from Eve. His head was in his hands. A small lake of blood had formed around his feet, leaking from his wounded ankle. And Eve...Villanelle slowly came closer. She was propped in an office chair; her arms hung limply at her sides, her head was tilted at an odd angle and half-shrouded by her curls, and she did not react when Villanelle placed a hand on her cheek. Frowning, ignoring Konstantin’s mutterings in Russian, Villanelle’s eyes roved the whole length of Eve’s body. Even with her suddenly blurry vision, she noticed that Eve’s right hand was tightly curled into a fist.

With a sense of reverence and care, as if Eve was a delicate doll that would break at anything more than a gentle touch, Villanelle loosened Eve’s fingers enough to loosen the object she’d held onto, transferred it into the palm of her hand. Villanelle made herself look down at the pill bottle that settled there. It was much too light. Villanelle’s hand shook uncontrollably. She swallowed hard.

“You are too late,” said Konstantin. “Eve took the pills.”

Villanelle threw the bottle at Konstantin. It bounced off his head hard enough to leave a bruise and rolled away into the dark.

“You let her!”

The ferocity of Villanelle’s scream made Konstantin finally meet her red-rimmed eyes. He looked very tired and very sad.

“But I thought you wanted her to die?”

Villanelle leaned heavily on Eve’s chair. She didn’t know if her own legs would support her, didn’t know if the muscles into her arms would keep her braced against the plastic. Breathing was hard. Seeing was hard. Feeling was unbearable.

“I wanted to see her die,” Villanelle said wistfully. “You could have stopped her!”

“No, Villanelle. It was her decision.”

“Well this is mine: I don’t want a funeral. Just burn my body.”

Villanelle wiped her eyes angrily. Held Eve’s head in her hands for a brief eternity. Then reached inside the velvety protective layer she wore and unzipped a compartment beside the place she’d secreted her knife. Compact and painted a pleasant shade of blue, Villanelle’s pill bottle rattled as she took it out. She shook the three little pills into her hand and stared at them. It wasn’t fair, thought Villanelle, that she was left wondering what Eve’s last words were and how the light had hit her brown eyes as they drained of life and whether she’d smiled or not during those last movements and how she’d moved and what she’d felt, if anything, as she embarked into the great unknown. It just wasn’t fair, Villanelle insisted, that she’d been _left._

The small room was silent. Villanelle brushed aside Eve’s curls, stroked her pale, cold cheeks, let her gaze linger on Eve’s lips, those lips she’d spent hours kissing and which she gladly would have spent many more forevers kissing if there had been enough time for such things. The breath hissed out of Villanelle’s lungs when she chanced a look at Eve’s stab wound, at the ragged and blood stained bandages that Konstantin had no doubt placed there.

A crooked smile split Villanelle’s mask with such force that her whole performance threatened to collapse. But there was no worthy audience anymore. Villanelle finally welcomed death to seal her away. But Eve didn’t know that, so Villanelle bent down and whispered into Eve’s ear:

“I won’t be long, baby.”

Then she shoved the pills into her mouth and swallowed them.


	24. Vital Signs

_“Quand j’partirai ne venez pas pleurer sur ma tombe. Combien sont sincères?”_

_(When I’ve gone, don’t come and weep on my grave. How many are sincere?)_

**La Fouine**

* * *

 The morgue in Omsk was a white building that did not look remotely big enough to house all the city’s dead.

Omsk itself was an oasis of culture at the edge of the southern steppe of Siberia near Russia’s border with Kazakhstan. The city boasted an airport, various industrial enterprises, two dozen higher educational institutions, six theatres and clusters of hotels concentrated in the downtown's various districts of 19th century architecture, modern clothing and jewelry stores, and stately art galleries. The awe inspiring Assumption Cathedral rose above the houses to demand worshipful attention. Its intricate blue and gold topped spires gleamed in the afternoon sun. Every day of the week, but especially on Sundays, groups of keening, wailing women clad in black and somber holy men with long beards would drag their procession through the city streets to honour the dead.

They were all given their last rights and properly buried in the cemeteries. The problem was that the mortuary business in Omsk was alive and well. Mercenaries and robbers daily plundered the graves, selling off the most expensive, opulent coffins and sometimes even the freshest bodies to organ traffickers who butchered in the night and then collected their blood money at dawn. There were so many climate related deaths too that not even the cemeteries or morgues could handle the vast number of bodies that appeared every day.

So the most prominent morgue, although small in appearance, was significantly and conveniently located near the embankment of the Irtysh River. The promenade along the Irtysh River was very long and reached as far as the railway station. Thanks to these transportation hubs, the morgue had devised the solution of simply shipping the bodies by boat or by train elsewhere, for a handsome fee of course. That was how Omsk’s most open secret was also its best kept one, a black stain regularly wiped away by snowstorms and frozen pipes and unpaid bills and starvation and misfortune.

Notably for Omsk, there was a statue of Fyodor Dostoevsky in chains grasping a Bible at the corner of Partizanskaya and Spartakovskaya streets, to honour his harrowing tenure as a prisoner in Omsk’s prison camps. Konstantin had nodded at it as he limped past, then turned onto Tarskaya Street with Eve’s and Villanelle’s wrapped up bodies in his wake like he was hauling freshly chopped pine trees. The morgue’s red door reminded him of the blood he’d waded through just yesterday; he shut his eyes briefly, sucked in a few laboured breaths, and shouldered his way inside.

The halls were painted piss-yellow. The frigid air smelled almost just as bad, some terrible combination of stale and rotting and despairing, compressed into the very bricks and floors and walls and rooms. Konstantin eventually located the crematorium and unwrapped Eve’s and Villanelle’s bodies on the slabs of metal that jutted out from the cremation chamber. He searched the rest of the morgue for the sterilization room, returned with more medical supplies, and tended to his wounds with a gloomy air. The soured protective layer he wore felt like a noose; he’d sweated right through it numerous times and that high concentration of salt had made its fabric stiffen around the contours of his body.

Konstantin reached inside his chest pocket, then peeled off the layer’s heaviness. But the heaviness pulling low in his heart went nowhere. He studied the pill bottle in his hands. A small dent near the top was the only visible evidence of its overseas journey from his suitcase to the palm of his hand. Presently, it was cold to the touch. Konstantin unscrewed the top and spilled the pill inside. It was coloured half daffodil yellow and half bone white. It was smaller than his little finger.

It was decidedly bitter to swallow. It burned as it went down Konstantin’s throat. He checked his watch, glanced at the bodies, and smiled.

* * *

Death wasn’t supposed to feel relaxing. Almost certainly, it wasn’t meant to feel like emerging from a hot bath or stepping into the coolness of shade after laying around in the life-giving sun. And yet...death definitely had its peculiar presence, scent, and method. As for what it looked like, there absolutely wasn’t any way that it could ever be so bright.

Villanelle blinked. Which was when she registered that at some point, she’d opened her eyes. Gradually, she managed to comprehend that she was looking at a light fixture.

“What...happened?”

That didn’t sound like her voice, but it must have been because it was her question. She was even less prepared to hear the sound of Konstantin’s straightforward tone offering his usual dry response.

“You survived.”

Slowly, Villanelle managed to sit upright. She looked over at a still motionless Eve. Then she looked at Konstantin, who was sitting on the floor, in the extraordinarily graceful cross-legged position that didn’t seem possible due to his wide girth. Villanelle made to leap off the metal platform but her body disobeyed; she dropped to the floor instead, winded. Konstantin chuckled.

“Careful, Villanelle. I am not having you kill yourself stupidly after all of my trouble.”

Head spinning, chest aching, her mouth tasting like wet socks, Villanelle dragged herself to her feet again and leaned heavily on the cool metal until she shoved down her rising bile.

“Konstantin...why am I alive?”

He raised the pill bottle he was holding and flashed a wolfish smile.

“I told you it was a Cold War trick.”

Villanelle winced at the loudness of his guffaws.

“What about Eve?”

Konstantin got up, crossed over to Eve’s body. Felt her pulse points, examined her chest, and changed her bloody bandages with fresh ones.

“Her body is still in shock. She will not wake yet.”

“I still don’t understand! The pills-”

“The pills I gave you both are not cyanide.”

“What?”

Konstantin sighed. “You had to believe they were in order for this to work. I had planned for you to take them in case Carolyn needed to see you both die. And I guess you did take them because you were feeling overwhelmed after all. But they were just a trick, Villanelle.”

“But how do they work? I _feel_ like I died.”

“What did they taste like?”

“Nothing. No taste, just boring.”

“Exactly.” Konstantin’s eyes twinkled. “Real cyanide is bitter. Some people say it smells almost like almonds, did you know? And you only need one pill, not three.”

“Then why did you make me take three?”

“From the nineteen twenties to the nineteen nineties, the KGB had a secret poison laboratory known as Laboratory Twelve or Kamera. They experimented on gulag prisoners with many poisons, like mustard gas, ricin, and yes, cyanide.”

“So?”

“They would slip these poisons into their food and drink, pretending they were medication. The goal was to find a tasteless, odourless poison that couldn’t be discovered after death.” Konstantin paused. Avoided looking at Villanelle. Cleared his throat and continued gruffly. “Cyanide was the most popular choice. But there was another formula, a complicated one that needed more human testing. In Chechnya, I poisoned both sides and reported back about its effectiveness. I still remember it: one pill was needed to stop your heart beating and your blood flowing, another pill restricted airflow to the lungs, and the final pill shut off all consciousness. A cold climate is ideal for best results. Regardless, the three pills had to be taken together, all at once, in order to eliminate your vital signs.”

Villanelle stared. “You...you didn’t kill us.”

“Of course not! I have tweaked the formula since, Villanelle. It only suppresses your body but it does not kill you. See? A perfect fake death.”

“Why, Konstantin?”

“I am a sentimental old man,” Konstantin grumbled.

Then he coughed violently. Villanelle had to steady him. She noticed that his hands were shaking violently and his face was steadily turning the colour of the white morgue walls.

“Konstantin,” she said sharply, “what is wrong with you?”

The pill bottle tumbled from his fingers. Villanelle kicked it away.

“Konstantin!”

Hacking, wet coughs overcame him again. He shuffled away from Villanelle to slide down the wall. He was not cross legged now, he was wheezing.

“Do not worry about me.”

“Bullshit!” Villanelle sank down to her knees in front of him. She grasped his shoulders. “You took the pills?”

“One pill.”

Konstantin’s wolfish smile returned.

“No! Konstantin, how could you? I-I won’t let you!”

“Villanelle,” he rasped softly. “Everything will be alright now.”

“No! You can’t do this!”

“I already have. Be happy your pills did not taste so bitter like mine.”

Villanelle bowed her head. When she raised it again, long tear tracks carved into her flushed face.

“Why?”

“My family is dead. You and Eve are safe. There is nothing left for me to do. And I am tired. So tired. Let me rest, finally.”

Villanelle shook her head. “I thank you for what you have done. But you are not done fully. I say so! I need you!”

“You still have much to learn about choices, Villanelle. Including how to respect the ones that others make.”

“Then teach me!” yelled Villanelle. “I still need your help, don’t leave me!”

Konstantin placed his big hands over her heart.

“Remember I told you, that you are strong and special because of what you have inside. I will always be right here inside you, Villanelle.”

Villanelle choked on a breath that scraped her lungs and burned her lips and stung her eyes and sent cold tremors ripping down her spine. She didn’t move until Konstantin’s warm hands dropped from her chest. She did not look at his eyes as he died. She only closed them.

* * *

Eve awoke to a world of pain.

There was way too much harsh brightness and acrid smell and polar coldness, smashing into her at the same time. She wanted to roll over but found that her muscles would not do it; her abdomen in particular burned like someone was holding a flamethrower to her flesh. Gradually, she was able to raise her head and lurch to a sitting position. Her arms wrapped instinctively around the bandages protecting her wound. It hammered with each breath like a razor was twisting in her gut.

Eve registered that Villanelle was standing over Konstantin. When Eve spoke, her voice rasped from disuse.

“Okay so...this is definitely hell.”

Villanelle did not turn around as Eve came closer. She looked at Konstantin aghast, noticed the finality of his pose. Her stomach churned.

“Oh my god, you killed him!”

Villanelle whirled around and grasped Eve’s neck. She shoved Eve against the wall so hard that her head slammed back, her knees buckled, and she collapsed. Villanelle’s crushing hands were still around Eve’s throat. She thrashed. Her eyes leaked. She clawed at the back of Villanelle’s wrists, drew blood. She couldn’t stop looking into Villanelle’s eyes, captivated by the feral light they blazed with.

Running out of air, Eve felt for Villanelle’s slashed cheeks. Her fingers traced delicately over the openings. Then her nails clawed into them. Villanelle screamed and her hands sprang open. Eve gasped. Villanelle came at her again, but Eve threw her hands around Villanelle’s waist and bashed her head into Villanelle’s stomach. Eve’s muscles flared in protest as she tried to scramble to her feet. With shaking arms, she heaved herself up by using the metal crematorium slab for purchase. She turned in time to anticipate Villanelle’s charge. Roaring with the pain, Eve landed a punch on Villanelle’s jaw.

White knuckles split as they connected with the sharpness of bone. Villanelle stumbled. Slammed against the crematorium. Crashed to the floor. Eve backed away, clutching her wound. She felt the blood oozing between her fingers once more. The sleek surface of the metal platform cooled her nerves momentarily; Villanelle stood tall but defeat dulled her eyes.

“Now you know...everything. Including what it is like to die,” Villanelle spat. “Congratulations.”

Eve seized Villanelle’s hand as she passed.

“But what I want,” said Eve desperately, “what I actually want right now, with _you,_ is to know what it’s like to really live.”

Villanelle pulled her hand away.

“Only you and me are left. Just like you wanted, Eve.”

Before Eve could react, Villanelle viciously ripped off the layer of bandages covering Eve’s stab wound. The sudden surge of pain made Eve twist to her knees. She contorted on the floor. Through a haze of agony and searing, watery vision, Eve acknowledged that Villanelle walked away without a backwards glance.

* * *

When Eve opened her eyes in the dead of night, her heart was as dark as the moonless sky. Even without light to see the view, Eve felt the same seriousness and austere nature of the Chugach, Kenai, and Talkeetna mountains settle in her ribcage. So did their ancient strength, which empowered Eve to ease the bed covers off herself. She got up abruptly and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress rustled beneath her; she forced herself to relax, and ran her fingers through her unkempt hair, then down over the back of her head and neck, and stretched her head backward, welcoming the soreness that warmed pleasantly up between her shoulder blades. For a moment she could not remember where she was.

Something like fever broke over Eve. She fumbled her way to the cloth screen at her window and shoved it aside to let in a flickering, weak light from the street below. The silhouettes of pine trees, the lonely strings of power lines stretching on for miles, the drunken shouts beneath the querulous murmur of many voices. Eve clutched her stomach, frozen. She left the bedroom, taking the duvet with her, and sat on top of the stairs thinking about what she could do, where else she could go. She chewed on her bottom lip. Buried her head in her hands. Deliberately ignored the persistent, dull ache of her stab wound, and counted the circles under her eyes as reference for how many hours were left until dawn.

Eve eventually walked across her room to the small table, which was outlined dimly beside the window. She found a match and lit the lamp beside the washbasin. In the mirror, her lined face was a sharp contrast of yellow brightness and dark shadow. She put her hands in the lukewarm water of the basin and rinsed away the sleep. She dried her hands and face on the same blouse she had used the day before. By the flickering light of the lamp, she put on her jeans, black turtleneck sweater, and the black blazer with a hole in the chest pocket, which was beginning to reek of her own sweat, and stared at herself in the mirror as if she was a stranger. Then she blew the lamp out, and made her way out of the room.

The cabin that Eve occupied seemed a wonderfully out-of-the-way place where nobody would be likely to be looking for her. Indeed, it seemed a perfect place to contain her total sense of unworthiness, her reality of being discarded, of being _abandoned,_ the simple fact of betrayal which set her on fire every time she thought about it (which was all of the time). Changing contexts could not change her from within. No matter how many times she passed the kayaks drifting contentedly along Cook Inlet, or how many caribou she spied between the forest trees, or how many kind Indigenous folk offered her smiles and small comforts in the form of free coffee or notes of concern for her spirit colouring their chit chat.

Anchorage was only a grid of numbered and lettered streets, wide sidewalks and plenty of parks and paths, all surrounded by the vast Alaskan wilderness. It wasn’t a place of miracles, certainly not the restorative kind. Eve knew that the locals would say otherwise, would probably implore her to attend a cleansing smudging ceremony for her own good, but Eve doubted that she could ever live long enough for the rot gnawing at her heart to just stop.

Every day-sometimes in the morning, sometimes on her way back to the cabin-she was convinced that someone was watching her from a few paces behind. She’d turn, seeing nothing but people with woes other than hers on their minds, but the queasy feeling wouldn’t go away. Sometimes it even happened at the museum. This time, though, the sensation of being stalked wasn’t just her guilt talking.

The next morning, Eve entered the building. Its glass facade masked the wondrous wooden designs within which were blended with tasteful contemporary architecture. Steel beams entwined with carvings, greenery coexisted with pelts and grizzly bear teeth and claws and hooked antlers and hand-made blankets and facsimiles of past lives. Simpler lives. Wholesome lives. The museum’s speakers crackled to life; voices droned on about testing the sound system for guided tours. Eve kept her head down and briskly walked past massive skeletons in one of the carefully assembled displays. She briefly contemplated tearing some down with her bare hands but she hadn’t had her first decent cup of coffee yet.

Only three sips later and her stalker appeared in the form of a young blonde woman that almost made Eve spill the entire contents of her mug.

“Mrs. Astankova?”

“Yes?” answered Eve.

“That’s such a pretty last name!”

“It is.”

The young woman scanned Eve’s face, lingered on her haunted eyes and bone structure and weathered skin as if she’d never seen an Asian woman with amazing hair before. In turn, Eve tried not to look too hard at the softness of her lips or the olive tint of her eyes or the way her hair was tied back, just so, just enough to make Eve swallow hard.

“Your husband is Russian?”

“My husband is dead.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry.” She tried to recover. “You’re the um, the new curator?”

“No. Seriously, _you_ must be new because I’ve been the curator for quite a while.”

Eve thought about fucking this young woman with her blonde hair, maybe fucking her face for a long time just to shut her up. But the shade of blonde was wrong and her voice was too American and she just wasn’t focused enough. She stammered excuse after excuse instead of throwing back some clever remark or teasing barb or something else completely unexpected that took Eve’s breath away. The coffee didn’t taste good at all but that wasn’t why Eve drained it in a few gulps and scraped her chair away so quickly that the young woman finally stopped talking for six glorious seconds.

“Where are you going Mrs. Astankova?”

“To my work, obviously. I suggest you do the same.”

“I can’t do that until you see the newest piece that’s arrived.”

Eve begrudgingly allowed the package to be opened in her office. Amongst the clutter of papers and files and digital devices with their meticulously entered data, she unwrapped the white tissue paper. The object settled nicely on her desk, like it was finally finding rest after a long, long journey. Eve barely managed to remain in her chair at the sight that greeted her:

An elegant, bulbous bottle of perfume, with its once decadent glass now dusty and its label faded.

Eve fought the blossoming smile that threatened to fracture her composure as she caught the few letters left on the label, starting with the V that set off butterflies in her chest. “You do know that we can only accept historical pieces that are of cultural significance to Anchorage?”

“Yes, Mrs. Astankova. That’s what this perfume bottle is.”

“You sure? It’s very pretty but-”

“Anchorage is a port of historical and cultural significance. This perfume bottle belonged to a French noble shipping in on a luxury steamer in the nineteen thirties. There’s not a single bottle of perfume like this in all of Alaska. It’s a rarity and a keeper.”

Eve nodded. “That it is. Okay. Great work.”

The young blonde woman gaped at Eve’s proclamation of taking the rest of the morning off and chalking it up to an unpaid sick day. She raced out of the museum before anyone could stop her.

Through the front door and the den, light now came in through the cabin windows, that pale, deep forest light growing slow and incremental while the day wore on. The cabin smelled of pine and smoke and scented candles and past lives. The windows were nearly black but for center holes rubbed clean by a need to see. Eve bustled about, dusting and wiping the various wood surfaces, fluffing pillows, rearranging furniture and decor, and dumping the ashtrays out the windows before leaving them wide open to invite the fresh breeze.

She sank down onto a leather armchair and...waited. Shadows of branches danced on the walls in deeper hues as the sun dragged itself across the sky like a wounded animal. Eve traced her stab wound through the material of her sweater, then slipped a finger beneath it. Her skin had smoothed ages ago; no sign of the primal stitching, not ridges where the skin had been raised from the brutal violence; no pouring blood; and most days, not even a dull ache. But the wound stirred now like it had a life of its own.

The wind chimes hanging outside the cabin door stirred. Sweet melody, fragrant with crisp, twinkling notes, drifted through the air. Eve watched the door, propped on the edge of her seat. Seconds squeezed by.

Nothing happened.

Eve eased back into the armchair. She never took her eyes off the door. Not until they closed from exhaustion. And then snapped open again much later, when the subdued oranges and purples of dusk bled into the sky and the sound of knocking cut through the silent cabin. Eve adjusted her blazer, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Villanelle stood on Eve’s doorstep, dressed in a white suit and cradling a bottle of champagne.

“Hi.”

Eve’s knees wobbled. An electric rush enveloped her. The hand gripping the doorknob dropped limply at her side. Her other hand kept her braced against the thick door frame. The windchimes tingled again.

“Hi.”

Villanelle tilted her head. “May I come in, Eve?”

Eve stepped aside. Villanelle briskly walked over the threshold. She went right into the kitchen. Cupboards were thrown open for suitable glasses and drawers raided for a corkscrew; upon not finding any of these items, Villanelle proceeded to peel away the champagne bottle’s cap with a knife and then to pour its exploded contents into two mason jars. She proffered one to Eve; their fingers brushed together briefly and Eve’s breath hitched. Villanelle drank first without hesitation, studying Eve over the jar’s rim.

“After Siberia, I would have thought that you wanted to be somewhere much hotter.”

The roof of Eve’s mouth prickled with fizz. She winced.

“I didn’t exactly choose this.”

Villanelle arched an eyebrow. “I would say that you did.”

“Fair enough.”

“Since we are speaking of choices, what do you want for dinner?”

Eve blinked. “Uh...spaghetti?”

Villanelle gently checked Eve around the kitchen with her hip as she whipped up pots and pans in no time, juggled several fresh tomatoes and worked through a pack of stiff spaghetti until it yielded to the boiling water. Eve chopped garlic for the sauce then dumped the thin slices into the simmering pot along with the ground beef. Dried oregano and thyme for seasoning were next. Villanelle stirred the sauce with the same dash of enthusiasm that Eve had seen her radiate with when she was committing murder.

“Did you end up working for Amber?” asked Eve.

“Yes. I still do. It is servitude of a different kind.”

“Did you ever-uh, I mean, did you and her ever-”

Villanelle regraded Eve impassively. “Lay the table, Eve. Please.”

The steaming spaghetti was topped with fresh parsley and parmesan cheese. Eve twirled some on her fork, sloppily stuffed her mouth with it, and swiftly washed it all down with champagne just to plug the stream of questions welling up inside her. Villanelle’s guarded expression hadn’t slipped for a moment since she entered the cabin. Her eyes unveiled nothing, but she couldn’t keep them off Eve. Across the table, the distance between them could easily be bridged with an extended hand or a slyly shifted leg.

“I truly did not think that to find you, I only had to find my family name.”

“You can’t deny that it fits perfectly.”

Villanelle held up her left hand. The wedding band glistened on her ring finger like it was encrusted with blood soaked rubies.

“I’m not.”

Somewhere between clearing the dishes and making their way into the den, the charged magnetism blazed between Eve and Villanelle. But above it, overpowering them, was the strong trace of sex; of _Villanelle’s_ sex, Eve realized. A unique signature, heady scent-she would have recognized it among a thousand others, the scent of Villanelle’s rising desire, of her untamed love, the spiced allure of taking as good as she gave, the elixir of euphoria spilling from a secret abscess in paradise. The dusk deepened in Eve’s eyes; her breath caught in her throat the moment that she saw the rawness of her own craving mirrored in Villanelle’s eyes.

Eve lifted the sweater to reveal her scar.

A low, shaky moan ripped itself from her at the first blush of contact from Villanelle’s mouth. There on the place that the knife had cut so deeply, Villanelle now administered soothing strokes of her tongue that she quickly chased with her hot breath. The wetness of Villanelle’s lips, their silken texture, and the soft kisses that she left along the length of the scar catapulted Eve to the very top of an intoxicating high she never expected to feel again.

“One of the most traumatic things about killing is having to give it up,” whispered Villanelle. “Do you miss it?”

“I-I miss being in a world where h-human relations are entirely governed by whether you can t-trust the other person with your life.”

A slow lick followed. “Is it the combat?”

Eve couldn’t see straight. She could barely keep herself standing on her own two swaying feet; the heat that enveloped her entire body was exquisite. It threatened to burst into an all-consuming inferno if Villanelle’s creeping fingers found the pulsating, aching wetness between her thighs.

Combat, Eve thought, was like a fog that obscured fate-obscured how and when and where and why someone might die- and from that great unknown was born a desperate bond between two people. That bond was the core experience of combat and the only thing that could absolutely be counted on.

“N-not exactly. I miss...feeling alive.”

“Why?”

“Because k-killing to stay alive, to-to keep someone you deeply care about alive...also means being ready to die.”

Villanelle sighed against Eve’s stomach.

“The willingness to d-die for another person is a form of l-love that even religions fail to inspire,” Eve pressed on, “and the experience of it changes you profoundly.”

Beyond her tangled curls, Eve caught Villanelle’s intent gaze. It reflected an intense and wild mind whose spark so mortified her in the heat of the emotional moment that she’d spent her life hiding it in front of others, out of shame or fear. But it had been a long time since Eve bought that pretense. Angrily, she buried her hands in Villanelle’s honey-blonde hair and tore her mask away.

“You warned me that if I ever abandoned you again, you’d kill me,” Eve said hoarsely. “But...you didn’t.”

“I stabbed you,” snapped Villanelle.

“Yeah.” Eve’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “I survived.”

“So what are you saying?”

“That if you really wanted to kill me, you would have stabbed me that way.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Please don’t ask me to live without you. I can’t do it.”

Villanelle looked up, startled. “You _have_ been doing it.”

“I don’t want to anymore. I miss you. I love you. Stay with me.”

“For how long?” Villanelle asked quietly. “Just until you leave again?”

Eve raised Villanelle up, cupped Villanelle’s chin, and kissed Villanelle hard.

“Neither of us is leaving ever again,” Eve growled.

Greedily, Villanelle slid her fingers into Eve’s hair. She pressed her body flush against Eve’s, their abdomens sticking tightly together, their hearts skipping to the same beat. Eve couldn’t breathe, not really, not unless she was drawing in Villanelle’s quaking exhale as she deepened their kiss; her mouth and tongue were insistent, relentless, hot and moist and addictive, sending sparks soaring from every nerve ending in Eve’s body. The only reason she pulled away was to gasp for air. Villanelle grinned and took the opportunity to declare:

“That certainly makes my job easier!”

“What?”

Villanelle reached into her suit pocket. She thumbed a passport sized photo.

“All the people involved with Operations Mandalay and Silver Vanguard are gone. Except one.”

Eve peered down at the photo.

“That’s Jess!”

Villanelle nodded curtly. “I have not been able to find her.”

“So that’s why you’re here?”

Villanelle tucked some wayward curls behind Eve’s ear. “I need your research skills.”

“Oh.”

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing. I just thought-”

“What?”

“I thought you came back to...love me.”

Villanelle stepped away to the dining table. She daintily placed the photo onto its beautifully grained wooden surface.

“Amber needs Jess gone. Our names keep coming up.”

“She’s talking? After all this time?”

“She has been talking all along. Giving MI6 information about Carolyn, about us, about Pharaday UK. Eve, the entire past MI6 administration folded because of Jess.”

“Sounds to me like this isn’t our problem.” Eve shrugged. “Jess is a rat, she ratted, and MI6 is fucked. What’s the problem?”

Villanelle sighed. “Amber cannot have a good image now if Jess keeps offering details about her business dealings in the past. And Jess will keep ratting until she is found. The problem is that I can’t find her.”

“Can’t you just put her name in The Twelve’s search engine?”

“No. Amber...changed it. To not be as invasive anymore. You know, for health reasons and to be a good person. I think. Besides, Jess would not be using her real name anymore.”

“That’s kind of the whole point of witness protection.” Eve messed with her hair. “What makes you think I can find Jess?”

“You are good at finding people who are not supposed to be found.”

“Thanks. But even if I did agree to find her…I just don’t get it, what’s in this for me?”

“Money.”

“Obviously.”

“Not enough for you?”

Eve licked her lips. “No. Not nearly enough.”

“What do you want, Eve?”

“I want you.”

“Very romantic!”

“If I don’t have you, then there’s no point. To anything. I’ve been living in black and white here without you, and now I have an entire palette of colour back in my life. I-I’m not giving that up again. Ever. I won’t lose you again!”

“Okay, okay. If I also told you that you’d get to kill for one last time, would that help?”

“Sure. I appreciate fun bonuses. I just have one condition.”

Villanelle narrowed her eyes. “Yes?”

“After we do this job, Amber makes us disappear.”

“We already fake died once. I swear, I still can’t get the aftertaste out of my mouth.”

“I don’t mean like that. I mean, Amber uses her tech empire or The Twelve or whatever to make us disappear. Completely. I mean...we never even existed. That’s the price I ask for my research skills. And you’re my reward. If Amber makes this happen for us, I’m all yours, baby. Forever.”

* * *

Eve coolly smoked a cigarette in Jess’s kitchen while she listened to the hysterical rat beg for her life.

The safehouse was more like a fortress with its surveillance and security personnel. Architecturally speaking, it was only two stories tall, with a boxy, modern cubist design, sleek furniture, weird art installations, and a sprawling living room that probably could have accommodated a small army. Luxurious, spacious, and with a stunning ocean view, Eve supposed that it was a house that Villanelle might have chosen for herself.

She was currently studying Jess’ knife collection with great interest. The silenced pistol in her hand was as black as the countertops. Eve spied an apple in the rippling glass fruit bowl beside the cereal and wondered if it was up to corporate espionage protocol for her to grab it.

“P-please d-don’t kill me!” Jess scrambled around the marble kitchen island. “I won’t say another word, I swear!”

“You have said a lot already.”

“She always did talk too much,” added Eve.

“Oh God, Eve! Please! We worked t-together!”

“Yeah. Refresh my memory, but I think you’re the one who told me about all that red tape that wasn’t in place to protect me? That was your job, to make sure the red tape was there.”

Villanelle blew out a breath. “Wow. You suck at your job.”

Jess’ piercing wail made Eve roll her eyes.

“Villanelle, will you please kill her already? I’d like to start the rest of our life sometime during this century.”

“Don’t _you_ want to kill her?”

Eve crossed her arms. “I’m out of practice with a gun.”

“It is not a gun, it is a pistol. But okay, did you notice all the knives?”

Eve prodded her stab wound. “I’m not really feeling cold steel at the moment.”

“Fine. So you want to flip a coin for it or something?”

Jess tried to grab a frying pan but Villanelle promptly shot a hole through it. Jess let it clatter to the hardwood floor. Villanelle stood over her, inserted through barrel of the pistol into her gun, and graced the trigger with her forefinger.

“Wait! I have a kid!”

Villanelle eyed her suspiciously. “Boy or girl?”

“A girl! She’s three. Please!”

“Cool. When your husband gets home, he can send her off to boarding school after your funeral.”

“I don’t have a husband! He left us so I’m raising my daughter by myself!”

Villanelle fractionally eased the pistol out of Jess’ mouth.

“Kill Commander?”

“Mmm?”

“What do you think about me paying for the daughter’s boarding school?”

“As long as you can afford it, I guess there’s no problem. Why, though?”

Villanelle shrugged. “I am sentimental.”

“Yeah right.” Eve rolled her eyes.

“Oh also! Kill Commander?”

“Yes?”

“I won’t kill her in the face. The heart is less messy. For her daughter. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Eve finished the last of her cigarette standing in the driveway. The salt tinged wind whipped her hair into a frenzy. Smoke clouded her silhouette. She had just crushed the cigarette beneath her heel when Villanelle came out of the house.

“You called me Kill Commander again. Twice.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I do happen to have a plan.”

“Oh really?”

“I mean, I didn’t when I woke up today. Not exactly. Now I do.”

Villanelle followed Eve back inside the house with an amused, intrigued glint in her eyes. Eve felt the familiar tug of excitement at the thought of impressing Villanelle. She certainly did seem jovial at the sight of all the kerosene tanks that Eve hauled out of the garage; and she enthusiastically flooded every possible corner of the house with it while whistling cheerily. Eve took care of the perimeter and the second floor terrace. When they’d drenched the entire property, Eve and Villanelle admired their work back in the driveway with their hands clasped together,

“Would you like to do the honours, Eve?”

She lit the end of Villanelle’s match. The flame surged to life, its heat and chaos reflected mesmerizingly in Villanelle’s eyes.

“Here’s to a better, brighter future of feeling alive,” murmured Eve.

The match landed on a pool of kerosene covering the front steps. They ignited instantly. Eve and Villanelle looked on as the entrance caved in, windows shattered, curtains caught fire, smoke billowed out of the wreckage, and flames gradually consumed one entire half of the house. They fueled themselves in a dance of scorching heat and cleansing destruction that scattered ashes to the wind.

Through it all, Eve and Villanelle did not let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heartfelt thank you to everyone who has invested their time and energy into reading and commenting on Vital Signs over these past few months! 
> 
> I’ve tried to craft a narrative that was true to the spirit of Killing Eve and its characters, while being original, exciting, and thought provoking. Hopefully, I have succeeded with what I set out to do!
> 
> Writing Vital Signs certainly pushed me out of my comfort zone. Before this story, there were a lot of things that I thought I simply didn’t do. I told myself I couldn’t possibly do these things and I doubted my abilities and resolve to write everything out. I thought: 
> 
> I don’t write intricately plotted, overarching stories. I don’t write long, developed character arcs. I don’t write action driven sequences. I don’t write graphic violence. I don’t write sprawling adventures and parallels and risky plot twists. Miraculously, everything I thought I couldn’t do, I somehow managed to do, and I also had lots of fun in the process!
> 
> Vital Signs wouldn’t be the wonderful writing experience that it has been without the kindness, support, feedback, and passion of the following people: 
> 
> Thank you to agapius for being my Killing Eve soulmate. You’re a flame of faith, perseverance, and conviction. From the very first time you posted your immensely intriguing thoughts, to all our incredible conversations, I can tell that we’re completely in tune about our favourite deranged duo. You’ve challenged me to be my best self and to write in ways I never thought I could. I’m so grateful that our paths crossed because of this story!
> 
> Thank you to NotesFromTheChamber for your brilliant and utterly hilarious commentary. You’ve always made me laugh out loud with your gift for brightness, spontaneity, and good, dark humour that never fails to amaze me In fact, you’ve helped me realize that Eve and Villanelle are the greatest duo since Hannibal and Clarice (or Hannibal and Will). Adam and Eve. Batman and Robin. Joker and Harley. Bonnie and Clyde. Romeo and Juliet. Odysseus and Penelope. Hades and Persephone. PB and J. Shaggy and Scooby-Doo. Tom and Jerry. Timon and Pumbaa. Yzma and Kronk. 
> 
> We just love our murder wives so, so much and you’ve made me appreciate their (mis)adventures even more!
> 
> Thank you to KillingEveKindofLove for helping me reaffirm that I should always trust my intuition. 
> 
> Thank you to CAROLYNNE123 for reminding me of the importance of appreciating humanity in the midst of darkness. Your thought provoking and caring comments have emphasized that sometimes you really do have to contrast things with the negative in order to see the positive. 
> 
> Thank you to ABC1987 for your loyalty, encouragement, and appreciation of what it takes to sew together this narrative. Your heartwarming feedback helped immensely and always brightened my spirits. Also, it’s very nice if you to let me rant about my travels; if you’re ever visiting Montreal, let me know and I’ll gladly make the trip too to buy you a coffee! 
> 
> Some events and people brand themselves of your heart and soul forever. To all the ones I didn’t name (you know who you are) but who may come across this story, I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for what you’ve done to my life. 
> 
> I hope readers will take what they need from reading Vital Signs and to interpret it in the way that makes them feel the most. Above all, I hope that if you read between the lines, you just may find yourself. 
> 
> xoxo


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